The Toymaker

A shop opened up, not far from here,
A bright neon sign, windows shiny and clear
The ever-smile owner obsessed with his work,
Making small vibrant puppets was always his quirk.
His creations all fuzzy and cute little things,
He loved his job dearly for the joy that it brings.
His job was the root of the life that he knew,
Done without help or need of a crew.
One bleak stormy night he had a strange dream,
About a colorful jester standing next to a stream.
An odd sort of feeling crept into his skull,
As if the dream was a message meant for his soul.
A message so cryptic, a meaning so cold,
As if hiding a secret, best left untold.
The moon bore a symbal unknown to his mind,
For an answer he knew but now couldn't find.
When he awoke, he thought to himself,
"It would make a great gift or look good on a shelf"
So he stopped his last project to work on the new,
His mind was ensnared and time quickly flew.
Three days had passed until it was done, 
This new project, he felt, was his glory...his sun...
It looked exactly liked he had dreamed,
But some things were different, not as they had seemed.
It's eyes marked with humor, but shallow and dark,
And a strange cryptic smile, in a cavernous arc.
The toymaker drained, went home for the night,
To catch up on his rest and recover his sight.
Once more he had drempt, of the jester again,
And that same feeling that crept through his skin.
He woke up in a sweat, his heart quickly raced,
He went to the kitchen in absolute haste.
To retrieve some water to relieve the pain,
That danced in his heart and throbbed in his brain.
He struggled with sleep but managed to win,
After an hour he slept once again.
When he returned to his shop, something just wasn't right
His eyes lost their twinkle, his smile not so bright.
His bright shiny windows, were shattered and spread.
On the pavement below a person lie dead.
The old man was greeted by a dark cast,
Of policemen and onlookers who were just walking past.
The police took down notes as they surveyed the scene,
A body contorted revealing its spleen.
They came to the conclusion he fell to his death,
Carved up by the window before his last breath.
An ambulance had just settled across the street,
Circling like vultures for festering meat.
The old man concerned, dashed into his store,
His police at his side he rushed through the door.
Looking for clues of the cause of this mess,
He dashed up the stairs, consumed by distress.
For what he saw next shocked him the most,
His once color-filled face as pale as a ghost.
The jester lie face down clothes tattered and frayed,
By its delicate hand was a blood covered blade.
He placed the small jester out of the way,
The scene of the crime was clear by that day.
The toymaker filled with a new sense of ire,
Eyed the small jester with its mottled attire.
As he picked his project, a smile touched his face,
In the midst of his anger it seemed out of place.
He said to himself "I know what I'll do
To ensure that no one will ever harm you"
He took out his keys and locked up the store,
And with jester in hand to return home once more.
The once peaceful night sky, now consumed by the grey.
Lost control of of the heavens on this odd day.
While walking home he whistled a tune, 
His glasses reflecting the light of the moon.
But that warm merry tune was cut short by the breeze,
By the moaning it made as it passed through the trees.
The sadistic winds pounded the elder man's back,
Not stopping for mercy or giving him slack.
Clutching his hat as he challanged the storm,
He started to sprint to his home nice and warm.
But still the winds beat him and howled out their hate,
Wailing like demons at the edge of hell's gate.
Ten minuites later he reached his threshold.
He evaded the winds punishing hold.
Amy his cat greeted him with a purr,
He ran his cold hands through the cat's warming fur. 
The jester was placed atop a small shelf,
Then he turned on the heater to warm up himself.
The cat glared at the jester and its grin dark and wide,
Eyes filled with humor and devilish pride.
In this comfortable state he took a short nap,
He drempt of the jester and its ludicrous cap.
Eyes markes with humor but shallow and dark,
Its strange cryptic smiles in its cavernous arc.
He flashed to a scene displaying his store,
Thousands of toys, puppets galore.
It showed the old man, smile bright and wide. 
Jester in hand and kids at his side.
Buying the elder mans well crafted toys,
Causing their merryment, causing their joys.
Then the scene focused on the Jester wood face,
Once more came that feeling that he could not place.
Before he could trace it, a sound woke him up,
It was his young grandson bearing a cup
Of freshly made coffee, stream rose from its brim,
Placed near the old man, fragile and slim.
The toymaker smiled and took a smile sip,
Then his old mind had started to slip
Back into sleep to try to recall,
The unshakable feeling brought by the doll.
But the following hours passed without luck,
His dreaming escaped him and not a clue struck.
He was awakened again by an odd sound.
The squeals of tires on slippery ground,
His grandson stood sadly tears streamed from his eyes,
Outside of the window was a cat's dying cries.
The old man sat up quickly and dashed out the door,
That's when he saw Amy drowning in gore.
The car that hit her was not in his sight,
But still he had ventured into the dark stormy night.
The closer he came to his once breathing pet,
Memories came that he would never forget.
Of their long friendship, and the sights that they shared,
his eyes could not leave his cat had them snared.
He viewed the large injuries and started to weep,
But now the poor cat was in eternal sleep.
Its blood had been gushed from its once attached legs,
Its ribs were distorted, broken red pegs.
He picked up his pet in his feeble old arms,
Cursing the driver with all kinds of harms.
Three years had passed, his production increased,
But he still has memories of his cat now deceased.
He made some new dolls who resembled the first,
To try to spread joy, to get it to burst,
To all of the families who entered his store,
The dolls brought great joy so he made many more.
Once his old happiness returned once again,
That's when the chaos and bloodshed begin.
He was exhausted from all the hard work,
All of that time on his compulsive quirk.
Closing his shop to catch up on his rest,
To regain his strength to make up the best
Small wooden puppets and small wooden toys,
These were his life, the source of his joys.
Two days after closing he recieved a strange note,
Written in crimson in a dark quote,
"Remember me yet?" letters oozed red.
"Try to think hard, because soon you'll be dead"
The old man stopped reading, fear formed on his face 
Trasmuting his smile, it seemed out of place.
The picked up the phone in the adjacent room,
Ensnared within worry and impending room.
He had called the police with the strange note in hand,
For once he was terrified, to weak to stand.
He looked down at the note as the phone rang,
Something he saw had snared him and sang.
The note on the paper, its message in blood
Had vanished completly like footprints in mud.
Blaming this chaos on lack of his sleep,
He hung up the phone, a promise to keep
That promise he made to his tired old shell,
To relax and recover for he did not feel well.
The dreams came slowly as if they were stalled,
Away from his thoughts, from his probing mind, walled.
But the wall shattered by the old man's strong will,
He slept once again pondering still.
The scene was the same, yet different somehow,
His clothing, the workshop, the look on his brow.
Were straight from the past, But not one he knew.
In sight was a village, a large castle too.
An unpleasant heat filled the bright azure sky, 
The mysterious castle catching his eye. 
His glance was disturbed by a knock on the door,
He opened the portal to his now eldritch store.
The guest of the Toymaker was donned in full plate.
In his hand rest a long sword, ever so great.
"I am sent by the king to offer a deal,
You can craft for his daughter or live life as you feel.
Paid greatly you'd be if the choice is the first.
Treated with honor with all money you thirst" 
The toymaker smiled "I accept the first choice"
The sound of enthusiasm had borrowed his voice.
"But a smile will do, instead of you gold.
For I do not need it, besides, I am old."
The scene had vanished and changed to a new,
The shop now a throne room with king dressed in blue.
"Your liege" said the old man presenting a gift
"For your daughter, my lord, to get spirits to lift"
The doll in his hand, a humorous sight,
With comical eyes and clothing so bright.
A voice spoke from the darkness, behind the kings throne.
"Hello old man" its voice chilling bone.
It stepped from the shadows revealing its head, 
Eyes twinkling merrily, mouth stained dark red.

His attire was bright and colorful,
But his intentions were forged by the damned.
Eyes filled with hate, yet humorous,
This look had the toymaker scammed.
"I am Tanzrax the mad" he said softly,
The torchlights stared back from his eyes.
"Don't worry 'bout seeing the king,
For now he is food for the flies.
Along with his daughter, who was pleasant to kill,
Removing her eyeballs....Was such a great thrill"
When they find her cute body...Ohh...What will they do?
She is cut up and stuffed into dolls made by you..."
"GUARDS! GUARDS!" The elder man shouted,
But there was no response he could tell.
The jester stood laughing "Foolish old man!" 
The guards are under my spell" 
"Who are you? What are you?" 
The elder man screamed, fear his only defense
"Just a dweller of shadows, a thing of the past,
Something that would not make sense"
I have watched your dull life for 64 years,
It is time to step forth and invoke your fears.
Its jester walked slowly to the cowering man,
A blade in his hand glistening.
A demented smile on his odd face,
and the fires in its eyes flickering.
Looking for weapons, the toymaker fled,
Running as fast as he could,
Determined to escape this oddly dressed foe,
only if his old body would.
Permit him to strive, to keep up his pace,
Not to fall prey to the fool.
On his escape he found a crossbow, 
His defense, his refuge, his only key tool.
Loading the crossbow when he was ahead, 
He prepared to make an attack.
He ran to through a set of random picked doors,
To make the pursuer lose track.
The unnatural silence and no one in sight,
Was only a prelude to a horrendous fright.
The wall to the left, solid as steel,
Started to waver appearing unreal.
The jester's dark face appeared through the stone,
Now with no flesh just only old bone.
"Time to suffer" The phantom skull said,
"I have toyed with you long enough and soon you'll be dead"
The skull emerged more from the wall that it was in,
Eyes somehow darker, yet it held the same grin.
The toymaker fired, fear in his veins, 
Wishing for magic, wishing for banes.
The bolt hit with accuracy between the skull's eyes,
The room filling up with inhuman cries.
Losing control of the spell it had cast,
It's phasing ability just did not last.
The wall it went through now acts as a blade,
Cleaving the creature, clothes tattered and frayed.
Its head fell to the ground and broke into dust,
Then a voice came along with wind gust.
"Good job old man" I misled you though,
The dust on the ground started to glow.
"Now the guards have returned and guess what they'll see?
In your cute little dolls...Heh heh heh he!
You will be executed for both royal murders,
Don't worry, I'll be there, laughing, as the action occurs.
Once again we will meet after your end, 
to replay this game, my withered old friend.
Remember old man, you can never be free,
Bound by all time" he grinned evily.
"For each lifetime you live, I'll be there too,
To make your life painful, darkness come true.
There is no way to stop this dark destiny,
No way to escape, no way to be free"

The scene now had faded, replaced once again,
That familiar feeling had crept through his skin.
He found himself standing next to the stream,
The one that appeared in his first bizzarre dream.
The moon veiled in fire, cast darkness below,
But in this strange eclipse, something did glow.
The old man walked foward to observe the strange light
That came from the soil, unnaturally bright.
His old hands dug deep within the soft ground,
And discovered a stone about six inches round.
It pulsed and it hummed as it was freed,
His hands started stinging, starting to bleed.
Arms surged with power and absolute pain,
Blood burned like lava, heat seared his brain.
He threw down the stone into the small stream,
Pain scorched his arm as he let loose a scream.
Burnt deep within the palm of his hand,
Was a strange symbal, of a strange land.
He felt something was different, in body or mind, 
He ran to the stream to see what he'd find
The reflection was different, not of his own,
Below in the depths pulsed the strange humming stone.
The face that stared back was that of a fool, 
Eyes dark and empty like those of a ghoul.

The toy maker awoke drenched in his sweat,
Those dreams and that voice he would never forget.
He looked at his watch, it was five minuites past three,
He turned on the television and yawn tiredly.
The shows he had skipped but he stopped on the news,
To see what had happened during his snooze.
The stories came slowly, but one caught his eye,
Ten children he knew were going to die.
Diagnosed with some sickness, with a short time to live,
The old man had saddened and wanted to give
Them his support and all of his hope,
Wishing them well for he could not cope
With all of the deaths in his recent past,
His life would just shatter his joy would not last.
He called for his grandson but there was no reply,
He ran upstairs and started to cry.
For what he saw next shocked him the most,
His color-filled face turned pale as a ghost.
The jester lay face down, clothes tattered and frayed
By its delicate hand lay a crimson soaked blade.
The blood of his grandson coated the doll,
And a dark message etched on the wall.
"Remember me friend?" It said oozing with red.
The old man could not take it, he wished to be dead.
His nightmare was true and no weapons in sight,
But now he was aware of this dweller of night.
"DAMN YOU!" he screamed, hate tainting his voice,
"I won't grant you mercy or even a choice!"
He down the stairs to retrieve his gun,
Desiring to stop the jester's dark fun.
The doll stood up slowly as it picked up the blade,
Blood dripped from its clothing, tattered and frayed. 
The old man saw this, and as his defense,
Shot the doll six times craving vengeance.
The hot bullets chipped the small wooden fool,
Revealing the truth of this loudly dressed ghoul.
The wood chipped away to reveal writhing bone,
Its darkfire eyes were finally shown.
The jester still stood, with a grin on its mask
"Nice try old man, now its time for my task.
I feel you have suffered enough for this life,
It is I, my dear sir, who killed your cute wife.
And your kids who died in that nasty car crash. 
The poor little cat that I desired to smash,
Remember that man who lay dead at your store?
He was an agent from "Puppet's Galore"...
All of those children, merry and free, 
Now coughing up blood.. Heh heh heh he!
And last but not least, your helpless grandson,
Slashing his throat was extremely fun"
The old man enraged, kicked the odd doll,
Its delicate form hit solid wall.
More of the jesters shell broke away,
Its once mocking smile had turned to decay.
The jester laughed darkly "You can not stop me,
This is only a vessel, are you too blind to see?
On last thing my old friend, you and I are the same,
>From the same mind, we started this game.
Your power so great you forged my way here, 
I am your darkness, I am your fear"
The old man kept kicking his ancient foe,
After a while it started to glow.
Eyes growing hot, grin filled with spikes.
It mumbled some words in response to the strikes.
Knowing this as a chant, the old man attacked.
With gun in his hand, he insainly smacked
the once beloved jester, his once only joy.
Cracking its head to try to destroy
The malevolent beast inside of the doll,
But it did not stagger nor did it fall.
A fire erupted from its deep eyes, 
The room filled up with inhuman cries.
The hell-bent chorus wailed out its hate,
As the fires grew stronger, ever so great.
Torching the room and consuming the air,
The jester stood laughing and started to glare
At the trembling man who had been set on fire.
Its laugh a dark blend of humor and ire.
As the old man's life ebbed, the dark jester spoke,
"It won't be long until you will croak,
Next time old fool you might even win" 
The miniature joker said through its grin.

-Blackness-

Decades had passed since that dark day,
Until the return, a lifetime of grey.

A shop opened up not far from here,
A bright azure sign, windows shiny and clear.
The ever-smile owner obsessed with his work
making small vibrant puppets was always his quirk.

sifting through the memories that lay between the shards of passed time i find nothing that can tie me to a smile. who was i before now? who am i? and who do i want to be? so many years have vanished into an unknown haze and everything that fell before she flew into my life with the sound of a glass door sliding shut is as concrete as the dust under my shoes.

i've never been to Hawaii, Palm Springs, or Mexico. i can't drive a car without wanting to do a Death Race 2000, and i've already managed to decapitate my memory, which is enough of a mess for me, so i'll leave the blood stained windows and the severed limbs on the hood for another time. i just keep rolling snake eyes on the game board, and the sidewalks just keep stretching, square by square. sometimes it helps to go outside and stare up at the evenings indifferent canvas, splattered as if some pollocksian disco vampire went out of control with the glitter. i refuse to listen to the radio, my ears just close when it's on, i rarely glance at the newspapers, except to see what time the movie's on, what my horoscope could be if i let it, what bands are playing, if there's anything even slightly funny in the comics, and that's all. i see visions of hostility in the neon glow of downtown streets, and i can't be there.

i want a cactus and a dog. i want to drive without driving, down desert deserted hiways through sunset truckstops and harmonica winds. i want a hat i can tell stories while wearing. i want another cup to hold coffee in. i want to play drums like william s burroughs plays words. i want to write like the beat of tom wait's voice over a dusty piano solo. who am i? who do i want to be? who i was is no longer important. i am in love and i am alive and she is my inspiration and the reason i move through time, eyes open to change.