This isn’t magic; it’s a plastic spell.
A white toy horse—too clean to be alive—
poses under hard glare.
VOICE: SHERIFF — ENTRY LOGGED.
The dolls hold, cropped—half-bodied.
Mute.
Their hands still keep the shape of touch.
One head, absurdly proud, bares painted teeth—
a carousel predator.
The scene is staged: cheap myth—easy to take;
it fits in pockets, rides on anyone,
a kingdom built from toys that means to last.
Above it all, the dark stays in place.
He bends—lit from within.
Older than the world’s work and its laws;
and everything here endures by his decree.
VOICE: SHERIFF — GOD: AUTHORITY CLAIM FILED. VERIFICATION PENDING.
He looks down; the lion keeps its task—
stone mouth pouring time—
VOICE: SHERIFF — Lion spout: DUTY CONTINUES.
a spare streamlet—habit, not a blessing.
A basin glitch—dull-carved rock.
The floor is patterned—small, obedient tiles,
while fountain water sets the whole display.
So much is arranged for noble spectacle;
the leak is truest.
The first to grant existence withdraws his leave,
his glorious law declares what stands.
Dolls unmake themselves—
horse goes under—into marble, into void.
Honours are re-allotted; plastic loses rank.
VOICE: SHERIFF — Plastic: PERMANENCE DENIED.