the Doll
Blackened charcoal,
Flesh in the aftermath of a fire.
It peels like an orange.
The air is scented,
The smell of marshmellow toasting on a fire.
Yet not as sweet.
Everything is wet
Soaked right through.
But no sign of rain.
This place,
Upon which a house stood.
A place they called home,
Is now,
Nothing more than piles,
Upon piles,
Of unidentifiable objects.
Black like coal,
All but one.
A small hand,
Pale.
A doll, only one.
Lying on the ground,
It's plastic skin burnt,
Looks almost real now.
And yet the eerie way the eyes seem to follow...
Unsettlingly life like.
It's a doll though.
Only a doll.
