Treasure Poem by Brian Taylor

What comes through the door
is not the Family Treasure.

Faces at the window
a light tap at the door;
what do they show?
(Who is it for?)

The clouds build up as battlefields
of steam,
cannon, horses, guns.
Warriors with swords and shields
stream
towards dying suns.

Five golden chains
bind the painted puppet
(and restrain
and entrap it) .
Five wires hold it firm
and make it twist and dance (and squirm) ,
perform its tricks
(and, for reward, receive its kicks) .

Eye, ear, nose, mouth, skin
and one thick rope holds
(and controls)
the mind
within
(and keeps it blind) .