Papier-Mâché

My skin is cold to the touch,
Steel woven to make my skin.
My bones are brittle,
Copper core through to the morrow.
My veins are solid gold,
Pumping nothing but lead and graphite.
My hair is silver strings,
Slowly fading and rusting away.
My vision remains ever clear,
Through the eyes of shimmering diamonds.
I smile from time to time,
Take note of the rows of white pearls.
All of this are combined,
Together they form my body.
Struggling to push on further,
Can my Papier-mâché heart handle?

Leave a Reply