Thursday, September 25, 2014
The Return of The Creepy Dolls
The one that has a missing eye,
Now sports a piratical patch
The one whose face is cracked across,
With glue, is mended, to a scratch.
The one whose hands are raised on high,
That used to snatch and claw and fight
And make a shadow albatross,
Now moves with strings a glorious kite.
The ones in national dress, so still,
Are resting only, and are not
Frozen as in some sacred stance,
Their cardboard ball-room is a spot
Caught by the dawn upon a hill,
And focused in a mirror-ball.
The ballerina whose long dance,
Won her the cups, that line the hall,
Grinds like the slow stones of god's mill,
Practice makes perfect after all.
They can not help how they are seen,
But see now, how mere love can mend,
They do not mean to chill the blood,
They only meant to be a friend.
But they bear scars of what has been,
So does their mistress, even now
The memories of clay and wood,
Of flesh and bone and even snow.
The echoes of the ancient clock,
Striking the hour of come to play,
That stands behind them on the shelf,
To measure out the passing day.
They are the key that fits the lock,
To open up the door of joy,
That opens up the hidden self, The otherland of girl or boy.