Broken China doll, left on the shelf.
Torn between leaving and staying,
Saving herself.
Torn between two, torn into two.
Between straying and staying,
Pouring out when there is only...
Silence.
Where do you go when the wind no longer sings
sweet melodies, but screams
in vanity, in vain?
Broken dolls, set on the shelf,
Victims of vicious, vicarious play,
Too young to fight the frantic fray.
Invisible, silent soldiers, Taught with tension, wrought with anger.
"I break everything I touch."
China doll, stuck on the shelf,
Allusions of grandeur
Warping herself.
Where do I go when the fields no longer chime
in tandem to their own sweet rhymes, but chatter
in calloused candor?
Go back to the tinker,
you soldier, you spy;
Return with purpose from immortal eyes,
Maybe then the fields with chime again,
the wind beckon in song.
But not long on this earth will we hear the reprieve,
of forlorn fields and wayward wind
as they welcome the sinner, then spit on the saint.
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