A buried lie

stuff the puppet with flesh, heat the wax till it begins to glow and drip down this narrow drain flowing from north to west, continues it's way down into the core of the earth where it solidifies, takes shape, the mad man laughs at the news printed over and over again when money exchanges hands because the face is all there is for the drips, the flow, the wayward down can all be retold with a narrative more colorful than the last, where all it takes is more convincing like the last time, that secret, that stolen good, that fast cash, adrenaline rush, what a high no dissipating even when life ebbs away, flowing down to the core of this black rotten heart. don't you see? don't you hear? don't you sense? of course not, for the dripping downwards is part of the amusement when death is just another lie and immortals are made, from flesh that rots, the puppet no longer moves when strings are pulled when the core has been forged a wonder, a face, a heart that mirrored the life once lived.