Final Bow of the Puppets

The humans are out there taking their bows in the light where the world can see.

We are piled up, 

cold and immobile on the floor as the green room light fills 

Up our empty button eyes.

Our cardboard frames listen closely to the aching theater walls,

And to the chandelier,

Tired of holding its own weight.

We may not be destroyed.

Perhaps we will be kept in a room, overcome with mildew and moon:

Still folded over,

Still Bowing