A small make of beauty, propped up on a pedestal,
Staring at nothing, not happy, no smile.
No one is watching but a little boy, cranking it up so it click, click, clicks.
A mouse scurries into his hole, upsetting the dust in the corner and sending a cobweb waving like a sail.
The child must stand on tiptoes to see, he is too small, just a little one.
Small make of beauty, staring ahead, staring at nothing begins to turn.
Turns to the music, sad, lax and rusty.
Long gone unturned, long left untuned.
Small face and tiny pointed feet, staring through large blue eyes, staring at nothing.
The birds have all gone, only sparrows are left, flittering around leafless bushes, lifeless trees.
They peck at the glass, they pick up the shells of seeds, long ago scattered in the snow.
And the small plastic princess spins for the boy.
She cannot see him, her eyes are fixed, fixed on the walls, staring at nothing.
Raptured by beauty, the boy winds her up again, standing on tiptoe, still very small.
His mother will not call him, she has died long ago.
This house, too, an orphan, with only one piece of song.
Spinning round, joined as one, the doll and the orphan.
But he does not dance; he is too small.
He only watches, but by watching, he is loved.
Loved, but not taken, not held and not kissed.
High in her box, staring at nothing, trapped in her dance, forced to turn by a small child’s hand.
Small make of beauty, do dolls know how to cry?
College life leaves little to no time for blogging, so I’m sorry this was not as carefully edited as some of my other poems. I just wanted to get something out and didn’t want to leave it on the backburner, waiting to be edited.
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