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The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

The Doll


Silver WInd

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The Doll

 

Listless eyes watch

behind the grim grin

of porcelain.

 

A single crack

framed like a tear

where limpid strands

begin to shed out.

 

Mouth eaten dresses

such tattered cloth

once made of fine

silken length.

 

Little beads of glass

caked in crusted dust

a smile painted

appears twisted agony.

 

Where there might have

been beauty once

grown over in cobwebs.

 

A silent plea

for a lover once given

not cast aside

a pain she tries to hide.

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