Dolls

Master crafted,

Painted to perfection,

The artist’s pride, the craftman’s delight

Petite porcelain dolls

With hearts of glass and all

Beautiful to see, smooth to touch

Yet fragile and withstanding no fall.

Tossed, dropped and shattered

In glimmering pieces we end

Only to be transformed

Our stories told in murals of mozaics.

Yet another artist’s hands must pick us up and put us together again,

Rearranged, unrecognizable,

A brand new scenary

Unfamiliar pictures,

No longer dolls, the object of the story

But the setting, the place of happening.

One life to another we are thrown,

Broken and mended and broken and mended again.

R. A. Douglas

June 11, 2016.

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