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Lost and Ill-Replaced
Oh, what pale imitation now is this?
My train of empty carriages which held
A score of lovers, harem of my flesh,
Now emptied of those who within me dwelled.
These rails since lain to waste, just fractured tracks
In rows like tombstones, each besides its mate
A massacre of fellows, myself cracked,
My new friend, false as shadows, in their place:
A disappointment, dun-coloured and dull
This dumb doll, mute and fixed she cannot move.
Her edges sanded, hollowed, empty hull.
Red garnet-gleaming lovers she removed
For this pale imitation of my joy,
A coup de moi, my silent staring toy.
Copyright ©
Alice Reynolds
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