Mama…

One staring eye,
the other blinks
like a beetle
crossing a marble.
Porcelain face,
flushed with rouge
and crimson
painted lips.

Hole in the wall
in the boarded up attic
of a Victorian townhouse.
Long forgotten,
until the mortar
crumbled around
the remains
of her dolls.

Dresses of lace
embroidered by spiders
with gossamer threads
and sprinkled with dust,
decay and c...

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In an old house

I found an

old doll.

It looked worn

and scuffed and

like it had

taken a fall.

Her arms were

torn and all

out of kilter.

She was lying

in some kind

of dirty old filter.

Her face was

chipped, broken

and her smile missing.

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A doll is for play

To be treausred every day

A friend come what may

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