Upon a stage where spotlights flickered dim,
The master plied his craft with breathless poise;
The wooden lips obeyed his every whim,
As practiced gestures mimicked human joys.

The dummy perched upon his knee with grace,
Its hinges slick, its gestures smooth and sly,
Yet something stirred within that painted face—
A trace of spirit no mortal could deny.

Each night, the ventriloquist would don his suit,
His voice held steady—yet his eyes betrayed.
Soon whispers grew: a voice had taken root—
Was it the master, or the dummy who obeyed?

The crowd laughed loud at jests both crude and clever,
Unknowing which voice truly pulled the reins;
As man and mannequin performed together,
One flesh, one wood—both bound in unseen chains.

In silent quarters when the curtains closed,
The master begged the dummy to stay mute;
But wooden jaws still mocked him, lips opposed,
Confessing truths the man could not refute.

“You need me more than I need you,” it jeered,
“Your voice means nothing if I don’t give mine,
Your talents die the moment I’ve disappeared—
You’re just the hand that holds me, half as fine.”

The years ground on, the master’s mind decayed,
He could no longer tell which thoughts were real,
His own lips moved when dummy’s words were played,
His puppet’s scorn was all he’d come to feel.

Night after night, the master’s reason blurring;
Each uttered pun became a private scream.
They found him still, the mirror’s glass was stirring—
Two faces fused within the same dark dream.

No longer does the dummy curse and jeer—
Its grinning jaw rests silent, devious, wise;
The master mouths its jokes for all to hear,
And hollow laughter spills from human guise.