The broken ventriloquist parachuted
beyond the road, past even the living greens,
a wanderer in a straw hat
seeking life’s spark – that fire
that animates existence fully
and follows no formation.
Who paints the living? Who plants
the dead? In the end where do we go?
Asking questions with motionless lips,
he failed to hear the smoke
or any other meaning
and missing his traveling companion
returned to the road, lost after Genesis,
holding only clay.
Phillip Knight Scott | © 2019
Written for Sunday’s Whirligig #232 : clay, end, follow, painter, straw, wanderer
Often Mumbled Musings 
I interpreted your ventriloquist to be a lost puppet, in an inquiring poem…
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“Who paints the living? Who plants
the dead?”
Great lines. I’m currently working on a novel that begins each chapter with a “death quote.” This is fabulous.
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Thanks so much! And best of luck with the novel – not an easy task.
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I have a few under my belt. It never gets easy, but it does get easier. 😉
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