Vintage be 

Cling it did like the old misty mildew

long forgotten by time

sleek and cold across the ceiling.

Glistened the fine gossamer 

waltzing figures spun from the dew

glint and swirl as though music played

silently, for none but them.

Resting dust hugged the vintage wood

like long lost lovers united

all consuming, all immediate

as though years apart were torture of sorts.

And outside, the garden grew 

wild as if the days ahead were short

soaking all the sun, all the rain.
But none saw the ragged doll beneath tall weeds

an arm torn from its socket,

eyes fixed to the promising sky

perhaps she would today see a familiar face…

the child who left in a hurry,

dragged by the arm, her cries unheard.
‘My dolly! My dolly!’ …and shoved into a beaten old tin box.

The exhaust spewing dirty.

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