Porcelain

a doll that teeters on the ledge
of a long-forgotten shelf;
dust congregating- singing hymns,
songs without composers-
& time eroding it as a termite.
soon the wood will wear enough-
chip & crumble & splinter-
that the dearest dolly takes a tumble,
her golden gossamer curls
catching the sunlight
ever so slight
as to almost appear human,
acrylic fibers turned to hair,
if only for a moment.
& she somehow will not shatter,
rather earn some blacks & blues.
i've never seen porcelain bruise before,
but my dear dolly, it suits you.