Forgotten Dolls
A hair crack runs down her porcelain face.
She’s framed in a moth eaten tattered dress
that is trimmed in satin and yellowed lace.
Her skin powdered, with a look of duress.
In her blank eyes she trys to hide the pain
and her faded lips once were ruby red.
Her stilled emotions that only contain
the little glass beads that hang by a thread.
I pick her up and brush her cobweb hair,
yet a tear falls and rests upon her cheek.
Both, cast away with no one left to care,
we share a pain; it hurts to much too speak.
At least in her I know I can confide,
still, I’m lonely now, I’m a widowed bride.
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