Bleeding Fingers by C. Walker

Then, I used to scream and cry
When blood broke through my thin, pale skin
And even now, unto the point
Where I shall prance, I, mannequin!
The strings that pull me tug, unyielding
And as I reach to run from red
I end up tugging into it
My bleeding fingers each have sinned
Lacerating countless strings
Of which is hell itself, I say
I say -- reducing to but grey
My bleeding fingers cry, and I
Listen to their fantasies
Of dolls and toys, of plaster things
All lined up, waiting, listening
As I claw, my sinning grasp
Unto hating string’s dear clasp
I yearn to prance, I will to wake
From dancing with the string’s ill fate
My bleeding fingers, bleeding out
Until they grey -- ash vanishing
I live with muscles made of bone
Without a soul, I, mannequin

C. Walker is a poet from Connecticut, born in Switzerland, studying at Cornell University. He enjoys most absurdist, philosophical, and Romantic poetry, with inspirations including Poe, Yeats, Rumi, Dylan Thomas, and Frost. His work appears in magazines like Aphelion, Third Wednesday, and The RavensPerch. His website is www.cwalkerpoetry.com.