This is one of your best works. In "Innocent Child Of Perfection", the thought I was getting at was that men are born clean and real, but as time goes on, they turn into the puppets you described in this poem. They turn into society's plaything, for them to toss and throw as they please with no fear of a reprimanding, especially in America. The fashion craze here is literally deadly, anorexics and bulemics run around like the dead left unburied. Wealth, sex, and so many other vices control the lives of things once called men but now puppets; mere toys for the entertainment of the crowds. "Mimicry Of Life" is the best name for this transformation of flesh and blood to wood and strings.
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