'DOLL HOUSE'
James Doyle | 27 March 2017
The pale porcelain face
Reflected in a false perfection
Truth distorted by the glass
How many died for this ersatz muse?
The pearls that choke the life from her neck
Fanciful threads and blood-red cloth
Hide the bare bones
An empty cage, void of the beating empathy
The price of the ageless face
Youthfulness slipping
Through the gaps between fingers
White sand, dry and unforgiving
 
She is the final goal
Emotionless, but beautiful, nonetheless
The Dollmaker’s final masterpiece.
Lovingly crafted
Each hair individually bound
To the plastic skull
Thin layers of gloss conceal the inner rot
Synthetic lashes, darker than dark
Frame the dull glass eyes.
Eyes.
Empty, no trace of humanity,
For there is none.
That is the cost.
 
Time runs out.
We chase it, but we will never catch up
It leaves us behind, cracked and broken
A deal with the devil
A deal with ourselves
Sacrifice all that we are for an everlasting lie
And so she covers up.
The dresses hide the ivory
The lies hide the truth
The extravagance hides the nothing
The makeup hides the fractures that show on her china face
Fragile, unfixable,
We slowly rupture and shatter,
The dolls we are.
Old toys, pushed aside to make way for the better, the brighter
Plastic eyelids, unblinking
As the world blinks back, damned to the same fate.
Vanity. Beauty. Death.
The mirror cracks and we are no more.

James Routledge 2016