Dolls With Missing Faces

A Poem by Andrea

the bedroom I must now resign in.

Attic space as a bedroom.
Stairs the squeak and crawl
and moan.

Nightmares surround me
and scream of death,
setting fire to my dreams.

Possession is in the demons hands
and his nails
tear at these walls

A triangle roof.
I bump my head, start to bleed
on the frictionous carpet.

Toys abandoned by a little girl
dance around this room
as if by force,

and in my mind
I am left with an awe
towards these dolls with missing faces.