Heart of the dummy,
believer,
deceiver,
on stage and stripped bare,
but they all stare,
like the scars upon the man's shivering body are just his act.

This world of barb wired curiosity;
homicide after a night of worthless sex,
but the bedsheets cry,
tears that ripple my skin
and sing me lullabies to cradle away in the winter winds.

Made of wood,
he can not feel,
his skin can only fade away and peel.

Heart of the ventriloquist,
killer,
story-teller,
his hands stitched across his face,
so that no man can see the glass tears;
and his eyes, bleeding, from just being sorrowed.

Morbidly obese,
his alibi scripted and
all the dying children he birthed,
hung from the ceiling so their innocence would outshine the setting sun.

Made of flesh;
with a knife he can bleed,
but love is all he needs.