Pieces of her scattered about
Casually littered like refuse
Once was whole, all in one
Now ripped by subtle abuse
Hair of marigold, angelica and fire
Mussed and splayed on the floor
Alabaster skin, so soft and so smooth
Now rougher than ever before
Now she lies silent, smashed to the ground
And walk along does he
Upon the remnants shall he stumble
Sees the shards of what can be
He begins to touch the pieces
Gently stroking disheveled hair
His tender heart begins to speak for him
To let her know that he is there
The magic hands of softest skin
Begin to work away
Gingerly grasping every piece
Erasing all rips and frays
All at once she begins to appear
Through his labour she comes together
The broken doll, once forgotten and left
Is now completely tethered
He caresses her face, straightens her dress
Calmly strokes the hair
The doll’s face, seems to peer at him
A small smile now resides there
Instilled within, and never before
Does a spirit begin to thrive
The broken doll, once shattered and lost
By his hand, now alive
With teary eye, he surveys his work
He no longer needs to roam
The beauty of his labour lives
The doll maker takes her home.
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