Making a Doll in HellFrom hands wrought with decay,
I sculpted you from the deepest, red clay
and shaped your form in funeral pyres;
raised you up with damaged hands,
out the dead-man's fire.
I sutured your sides with my own hair,
bound your limbs and threaded together tears,
and I beat you so you would soften up
then pulled over the clay; filled it,
with my own skin; with my own blood.
And as we sat below amorphous skies,
I poured sand into your empty eyes,
until they overflowed into building dunes,
turned to glass, and shone like diamonds;
like stars from out a darkened room.
And I built your soul from memories,
sought out from days so heavenly
as the majesty of a blooming orchard,
the caress of an infatuated lover
and the perception of a child, unaltered.
Then I bound you up with love and grace,
sent you far away with a hopeful, farewell embrace;
tied you to a growing, darkened cloud -
and let it lift you to heights
high above the Avaddon.
I pray (one day) you'll know love of a different kind,