Forgotten

 

Her patchwork lips were a small frown,
the seams of her fine face drooping like wet lace.

She was a puppet made to have her life,
by a vanishing magic worker.

He left quite often,
disappearing now and again,
returning to warm her paper heart.

If she could speak,
she would tell him
that her paper heart felt
like it was shriveling.

If she could speak,
she would tell him
that she was leaving
the company of dust and spiders and loneliness.

She sat there on the finely sheeted bed,
unmoving,
afraid,
and cruelly forgotten.

He used to adore her.

Colors began to fade,
on the walls
that had once been bright and fresh.

There was a small square window,
though the sight beyond it was blocked by
a veil of dark.

Star patterns against a painted night sky
decorated the ceiling,
and this was all she knew of the sky.

And her disappearing magic worker
was all she knew of love.

Her patchwork face frayed at the seams,
the glass eyes black and  void.

She was a puppet made to see her death,
by a vanishing magic worker.

 

Reviews

[Just Charles]

lovely imagery. quite edgy and original.