The Doll


Dying within an obscure conviction
Tattered locks caress gently the doll like curves of angelic dominance
Stressing eyes disassembling the colored spectrum of night to behold the lavish conditioning of shadow and twilight
Isolated upon a shelf
Inked into the precious obsession of dust that holds her face in crusted hands
Tracing the satin touch of fingers wrapped around an artistry of painted blackness
Now demising there once gentle cuddling to scrape like nails the lurking billows of a hindering procession
Marching like ants as the general of suffering kisses
Her smiling radiance
Sitting upright to dissolve the thickest cloak of night
That has enveloped a forgotten doorway
Have I awakened from a dream??
Is this what's left of me???
Thoughts discarded entwined beneathe tears that mirror the crystal falling of intensified suffocation
Upon a dress that lavishly excites the notion of something once ancient
Now awakened to determine the sanctity of her own existence
Voicing the quiet canvas of dried mouth that can no longer echo
Upon a spell that portrays her doll like illusion in all it's complacency
Ordered profusely by mind and fury to expell it's solemn screams
But draped and dipped into the oiled relevance of a voice that can never utter
Nor muster the charms that beauty did besiege
Sadness elevates a weakened heartbeat
Cracked within the torn wizardry of ribs carved by knives that stitched together a body of silk and gentle wool
Embroidered by the name of a careful fathering
Trimmed crevices embracing the patterned excursions
Of joints that cradle there form in a defined restlessness
Painted by the soul of grief and loss within a child's crying envy
For she is signed by the gesture of a refined magnificence
Offered to the kingdom of a shelf upon a stone kissed wall
Forever staring outward in a fabled intellectual subtraction
Clenching memory and yesterday's final meaning
Into the heart of a forgotten queen
Tailored to resemble the beauty of a porcilin masterpiece

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This poem is about a doll...