The Wooden Prince

In a soundless forest, you roam

more silent than the silent world,

your unclosed eyes unseeing.

Streams glide through clearings,

your speech and answer.

Your life was not kindled

by lightning, but layer by layer,

grew your own body

through long, expectant nights,

not mortal flesh but undying puppet,

from nothing a moving permanence,

its prince’s heart run through by thorns.

When the princess takes you in her arms

to dance, you long to wake

before your body cools.

If only she’d believe,

the warmth of her touch could give you breath.

The real prince who made you

lies wordless in despair.

You almost make him live.