The Dollmaker's Art

Dolls with silvery skin,

And dark, gothic lips,

Drip with silky ennui

In the dark doll room.

Victorian tresses and dresses

Decorate their porcelain figures,

Holding hearts out of sight,

Out of mind.

Some hang from strings

On rows of dusty shelves.

They are robed in satins and sorrows,

For which a moth or the Devil would have no taste.

A tired moon shines mystique in opium

Through the chamber window,

bleaching chances for lack of sunlit flesh.

 

Twilight, midnight,

The Dollmaker comes to waltz with his creations,

Sweeping them off feet he drew the dance from,

Dream-eating the life from out their soft, white breasts.

Something strangely erotic he sees

In the smiles, the despair,

The unlacking apathy that he painted on,

With laquer salty from their last regrets.

 

Midnight, blacklight again,

Illuminates his radiant lover,

Auburn waves of hair lilting lazily

Off the table's edge.

A noire silk gown, pulled back,

A sugary red heart beating in her perfect chest.

White flesh dazzles the beholder.

Straps of leather hold down her arms and neck,

And her lovely legs, bony feet bare.

Her emerald eyes are open, sleepy.

A violet-petals mouth smiles

With the glee of True Will.

The Dollmaker, he stands above her,

Both sober,

With the tool of her ascension.

He kisses symmetry's lips,

Euphoria exchanged like saliva.

He puts the weapon to her breast,

Ready to give his willing canvas

A heart of glass.