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Dollhouse: A Haunted Tale
Wooden, coin-cut-out boards fit as stilts into a slot machine of toys, of silver; Metal tin creatures who spin in scissors, on a marble texture that gleams in the crimson light; of a candle that burns golden in the gloom of night.
Jerking its movements like a fallen pair of scissors, it folds inside itself, and does a wicked dance of doom; of black, printed limbs that Scatter across the shadows of shapes that move across the fading wall.
Shy; startled, it bulges its zombie-shaped eyes; and gazes out of its tiny eyeballs into the illuminating light of the room, the door that stays closed forever.
Crooked wooden limbs fold inside, the jerked movements; of the clockwork doll, its ruined black eyes gaze out in spite; blood drips down its clown-shaped frown; and the red circles on its face illuminate, in the dark storybook of terror; of carved paper dolls that line like robot servants in , the obscure words of the Gothic.
Its eyes peer; peek open in its poured sawdust of pain, that scatters inside the room; like stars, that darken in the sharp, edged sprinkle of glitter; of its handmade creation; of its plastic label reading its name , its shame.
Its bleak; black strands of hair snip, snip, snip; they fall from its ruined, scalped head, and its peach pink nakedness; stands as a classic photograph, of an ancient box; and a lost haze of maps.
Its fire-lit; agitated rhythms shake and pass through a black; burnt-out oil lamp, and its shudders of breaths, of life; shimmer and sleep through a round, shadowed door; and its playdoh bones, they tremor; and they break; and they line up along the wall like skeletons, like piano notes as they project and cavort from the shut, wooden bed ;that plays its muse .
The carousel music box sings; in a lyrical beat of music, in a sympathy of theory, that jumps and leaps, through the little house; its opera-like beats of sound, hum and harmonise through the homemade room; and its stitched handkerchiefs fall on the little floor; in a tissue of flowers, in a petal of pure white.
Tall; shaped like a thick black vase; its paintings of canary daises, link up through the pasted design, and the white-and-black oil glue, holds its paper shape; its tin-can numerical holes that shade in a toned, raven-painted letter from amidst, its hollow; open mouth,
that pours out a scattering of paper; that chains in a crown that flowers, that writes in its new name; its new flame of melodies, that arise in an ash of; red and white and pink.
A hand –solid, made- up of skin and bone, and flesh; reaches out from a gloom, an early projector; that controls the light that breaths in shadows, a hard; solid thing ; anonymous, and places it in, the textured house ; and all is still ,it lies still; as a doll.