Porcelain
Such a delicate, envied life of fragile simplicity. One could only hold
failed desires of a life worth dim comparison.
Oh such grim perfections of the world, beheld in precisely centered pupils
of the finest marble glass. Time slipping through the glass eyes, meaningless?
Never blinking, never permitted to momentarily cease sight of the ever changing
atmosphere beheld in a shiny, fixed stare. Peripherals fixated on every passing
silhouette, posing the question of which lacks more life- the dismal passerby,
or a still-life doll, wasting graceful beauty away on a filthy shelf.
Whitened pale,
hard plastic skin,
with a mirror-like shine when the light of day lay upon it as a warm blanketing of the sun’s rays. Rays with secretly set intentions of unmasking the neglected beauty; intentions of releasing such mesmerizing features of which one could blossom affectionate love.
Love.
Unrelated,
exotic,
distant.
For who would cast undying emotion into one unable
to return such bliss perfection? Though love, may it be the shimmering light
upon the marbled glass is due in full to the ever-present glistening moisture
of sorrow in thou’st eyes? Grief in the absence of agape?
Agony,
anguish,
despair.
Surely the resting place of such abandoned, treasured elegance will not
remain constant upon the also relinquished shelf. Fair, devoted beauty
certainly deserves a much more proper place of eternal resting. Much more
fitting. Belonging more so in a bedded field of lilacs and clovers. There,
at surely least, thou may be gifted with the perpetual spectacle of blissful
harmony. Rest here, my love, rest in harmony with my adoration of your respectful
beauty.
failed desires of a life worth dim comparison.
Oh such grim perfections of the world, beheld in precisely centered pupils
of the finest marble glass. Time slipping through the glass eyes, meaningless?
Never blinking, never permitted to momentarily cease sight of the ever changing
atmosphere beheld in a shiny, fixed stare. Peripherals fixated on every passing
silhouette, posing the question of which lacks more life- the dismal passerby,
or a still-life doll, wasting graceful beauty away on a filthy shelf.
Whitened pale,
hard plastic skin,
with a mirror-like shine when the light of day lay upon it as a warm blanketing of the sun’s rays. Rays with secretly set intentions of unmasking the neglected beauty; intentions of releasing such mesmerizing features of which one could blossom affectionate love.
Love.
Unrelated,
exotic,
distant.
For who would cast undying emotion into one unable
to return such bliss perfection? Though love, may it be the shimmering light
upon the marbled glass is due in full to the ever-present glistening moisture
of sorrow in thou’st eyes? Grief in the absence of agape?
Agony,
anguish,
despair.
Surely the resting place of such abandoned, treasured elegance will not
remain constant upon the also relinquished shelf. Fair, devoted beauty
certainly deserves a much more proper place of eternal resting. Much more
fitting. Belonging more so in a bedded field of lilacs and clovers. There,
at surely least, thou may be gifted with the perpetual spectacle of blissful
harmony. Rest here, my love, rest in harmony with my adoration of your respectful
beauty.