The dolls, the dolls, I make all the dolls, for the Master, I make all the dolls for the Master.
She sits in the front room of this place, while I am chained to the back, and people come, and I am forced to make more of me for them.
The dolls, the dolls, I make all the dolls, for the Master, I make all the dolls for the Master.
I work and I work and I work and I work, but still the Master doesn't let me leave, but that is fine, that world outside is scary.
The dolls, the dolls, I make all the dolls, for the Master, I make all the dolls for the Master.
My springs are wearing down, I hear them as I toil in the back room of that shop, I'm moving slower, the Master is mad, and now half my face is gone.
The dolls, the dolls, I make all the dolls, for the Master, I make all the dolls for the master.
It's been so long since I saw the Master, the chains have gone immobile with rust, but still I make the dolls for the Master.
I will make them until my springs run down.
I will make them until my cogs are broken.
I will make them until my joints fall out.
I will make them until I, as a doll, die.
View User's Journal
Dolls: Poems for My Profile
It's a bunch of poems for the doll collection on my profile. Look through it, please.
 |
