Our lives are spent cutting out paper dolls –
the piecemeal extracted from the whole.
Our hearts set, gazes fixed
upon various relative, handsome,
scissored and brightly-colored figures
we prop up and manage;
with whom we play act for our own exculpation,
amusement and gratification
while discarding the ravaged sheets
from which they are cut, the origin
and background, field and root,
never to humbly let things lie
unhanded and dormant in their contextual truth
but take up our scissors, our scissors,
again and again, to wreak havoc
upon this paper-thin, flimsy, fluttering world.
O child of God, how improbable and illusory
is the human predicament and personality.