A Woman's Paraphernalia

Her time stood still,

sitting behind the open door, she stared out.

Into the winter street, but into herself, reflecting upon her meagre,

beating heart.

The kaolin structures stood as still as they were meant to be,

But she wished for them to move.

For she so longed for movement,

a change from her black and white life,

playing out, like a broken frame, into the hands of time.

Her tears had faded into her skin and dried,

She was a ghost, floating in and out of her sanctity,

like a reflection without a cause,

an effeminate apparition.

They, were dimorphic, of the love she had never had,

and the one she had found and lost.

Her dolls were of all hues and sizes,

they sat, beneath the wreath, by the fireplace.

She sang to them. They were all that she had left.

Her old wooden doll house,the ceramic tea set,

she would lose herself every waking moment to her paraphernalia.

How she loved them!

Their meaningless echolalia soothed her,

ecdyated her, of her burdens.

Confined to the complexities of her residual emotions,

she comforted them each day.

In return, they helped her forget her bereavement,

and atone for the crimes she had befallen on herself.

No. She was not mad.

Unless being in love, is symbolic of some strange madness.

Its just that, she chose to love, what we fail to understand.