Dolls Alive

INK AND QUILL


Lying limp in the fields,
A wilted stem and rose,
Buried under emotions,
Dead and decayed,
Little by the little she withers away,
Lifeless,
Enate; her limbs spread,
Her wallow heart, heard throughout,
The more she sheds, the further the sound,
Resonates and ricochets across the lea,
A compass of indirection, broken by the span of time,
Southwest, northeast; a confusing melody,
Towards a bracken ridge,
A shallow pond and a mound,
She followed a path of bounds,
Lost in the earths cradle,
A crib of warmth,
Sleeping in a conceptual lie.

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