Mannequins

There are mannequins
Set up near the window.
Lifeless, soulless, plastic creatures,
There to put on a show.

No personality, no thought.
Clothes change everyday.
And with that, character too.
They have nothing to say.

There is a glass wall
So people cannot touch
They are shielded, from us, each other
From any interaction as such.

So fragile, they follow the breeze.
So artificial, so light, so weak.
Recycled when they become useless.
Their future looks bleak.

They were made in our image.
Now is it not ironic
That of these plastic beings,
We are becoming symbolic?