An abandoned doll's tale

A weathered, frayed doll sits quietly at a corner
Its patches illuminated by dim rays of light
Shining through the dusty window yonder
Making the place a mysterious sight


A fine layer of dust encases the old cloth doll
Giving it an antique touch; faded glory
However, its bright beady eyes seem to call
Out to you, imploring you to hear its story


It ended up here, in this musty attic
For a reason, one that was extremely grievous
The doll takes a deep breath, gives a hic
And begins its tale, its expression serious


It had once been bought by a fickle boy
Who took a fancy to it, and seized it
Marking it as his property with joy
Promising that his love would never quit


He showered it with compliments and
Affection, always whispering sweet nothings
To it and taking it to his fantasyland
Where they would go for walks in clearings


Often, they would sit in the moonlight
Watching and wishing upon the stars
That shone, high up in the sky so bright
And the doll would think bad times were far


Not long after, however, the boy grew bored
And decided that the doll was passe
So he bought other things he could afford
While tossing the patched doll away


Thus, it lay wretched on the ground
Of the old attic, reminiscing its sad life
As days passed by, and dust settled around
The place where forgotten objects were rife


For a long time, the poor doll still
Hoped and believed the boy would be back
To collect it for a hike up a hill
And then its life would be back on track


But its hopes slowly faded over time
As it began to realize the bitter truth-
That it would never again hear the chime
Of the clock, or slide down railings so smooth


It perceived that the boy had never
Truly loved it, that he had only liked it for
Personal comfort and fun, if ever;
Stepping all over it like it was the floor


So, with bitterness and resentment
It relates its sorrowful tale
Tears dripping down its crummy cheeks
As it tries to repress them and fails


Upon finishing its story, it sinks back with
A sigh, one of sorrow and of resignation
Helplessly awaiting the day it would breathe
Its last breath, before its final cremation.


Alice

Ghost house - Robert Frost

Image: Michael Otto

I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me--
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,--
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
Robert Frost