The Doll

Why do you put me on this pedestal?
The metal rod hurts like hell.
My body marred with time;

empty bisque shell,

my splendor gone to the wayside.

I come from greatness: exquisite.

I am a Jumeau—his hands,

like God’s.

Memories haunt my mind

of carriages and little girls,

twirling in silks and muslin,

theirs no less than yours.

A thousand little caresses

passed on and on

to you,

Their adoration lost,
in the slow tapping
of time.
My delusions of grandeur
end now, with you.

Tears—murky water
stain my satin bows and pinafores.

I wore them with pride.

Soft, small hands
caressed my silken strands,
black as night,
now tucked away in twelve years
of dust and grime.

My eyes gleam bright
in the kaleidoscope light.
Azure blue, like yours.
Faded with time,
and respite.

I am tired of spiders,
weaving their silk tales
on me every night.

I am tired of moths,
nocturnal feasting mouths
on my brittle clothes.

My china face you awed,
I did yours every night.
The tap-tap chips away
till I am nothing,

but dust and dry bone.

© K.D. Schultz