Written by: Connie Gildersleeve

Sitting on my front step,
A black mental box awaits me.
Chills run up and down my spine,
Disturbing feelings whirls within.
Ridiculous, it's simply a child's doll
Passed down from a distant relative,
Whom I've never seen.

Taking it out of its coffin like box,
I display it on my overstuffed chair.
Its blue piercing eyes look much to real,
As if it has a will of its own.

With great fear, I put her back in its box,
Tying it with my spindle twisted threads.
Human hair intertwined with wool
Creates stronger more durable yarn.
This I know.

Night after night the doll haunts me in my dreams-
The infinite hour glass evokes my past self.
The doll points to the hour glass and speaks,
"Thy sands are running, thy doom is fixed."
Afraid to the point of mental exhaustion,
I bury the doll in the middle of the night.
Deep down in the ground where her soul belongs.
In the morning the doll sits full of dirt 
on my front step once again.
A scream is heard.

For Jeremy Martin's contest, "Objectify Me "