A doll lies in the doll graveyard, under the veranda.
She is perfect, whole, except her shattered head.
She is at the top
of a heap
of broken dolls in the dark,
in the dark and the dirt.
The other dolls were easy to break.
Plastic, china, cloth,
ripped petticoats, lost shoes and bonnets-
the trappings of weakness.
Painted china faces fixed in demure smiles,
cherry-red lips and wide blue eyes,
but the heads have lost their bodies,
they are rolling around like broken teeth in a gape-mouthed, grinning skull.
rip- crack - crunch.
In the damp dark of the doll graveyard
They are still, still.
Missing arms and legs, bodies snapped in half,
crushed, melted, torn.
But decay won't touch them yet,
to soften the sharp edges of destruction.
The other dolls were easy to break,
and it was easier every time.
hiss - tap - fuck.
At the top of the pile she is perfect,
except for her shattered head.
"Traitors," whispers the black hole that is her face
to the broken dolls beneath her.
"Traitors," she screams.
(these last, dark dreams)
review, tell me what you think. And what does all of this have to do with a popular breakfast cereal?