Geppetto's Toyshop

A hunched old man whittles at wood with a dull knife
that is obviously too small for his large, work-worn hands.
The block of wood is smooth, well-finished, but unplanned.
Behind the counter, the shavings fall,
with bits of power and resolve in every curling ball.
Greying wood, once black and ripe,
now rots in the sun outside,
and the lack of life inside.
Chocolates five years old sit in boxes on the counter,
not on display, but still for sale.
Mice squeak in the back corner of the room where little plush dolls,
sewn with a tight stitch and stuffed with feathers
and dirt stare back at the old man with black button eyes and gruesome smiles,
forever fixed in that one position.
He doesn't care though.
His project is almost complete, and it is amazing to see,
that even though the knife was not fit, the block was so big,
and his hands to frail, and little soldier boy stands,
painted and finished grandly on the counter,
looking to the old man as Pinocchio to his father,
and the old man stares back as Geppetto without a fairy
to bring him back to life.