He was just a boy
Wooden in bulk, edge and bough
He was drawn from a design of pencil
– Unlike the clay-made man – on Jepeto’s drawing board.
A marionette, a type of stringed puppet.
The boy could only recite poetic lies
How the moon was made of passion fruit cheese cake
And fireflies were really pixies with lanterns
Even the fairy with turquoise hair
Couldn’t convince Pinocchio to embrace the truth.

And you listen to his story, of how he visits
The land of toys, joins a circus, finally becomes a puppet
Once again. All the time, his nose was adding inches
To every lie emptying his lips.

And what is the cost of a lie in this revolving world?
It is just a part of your conscience priming
To the next time. How the voice within
Becomes softer with time, hazier in articulation,
Diminishing in echo, with no testimony of the truth.

We all carry the curse of Pinocchio.
And time and again, we kneel in front
Of a wooden chamber to recite our fallings
The lies that we heave to come out shining
On the other end. And we go back to our lying ways
Knowing Jepetto is a forgiving creator.

We are wooden puppets, searching for our own
Blue fairies to recapture our vestigial consciences.
Only then can we sleep in solemnity,
Knowing the tip of our tongues are unadulterated,
And our voices are rejoicing,
Hurling out sacred truths.

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