Broken Dolls

Everywhere in the antique fair there are beautiful relics,
parts and pieces of treasures that once were,
but over time, neglect, lost their glow, broke
here and there, accumilated scratches and dents,
lost parts of themselves and became less treasure
and more… something else.
A project for some. Or maybe spart parts
for a Frankenthing, or too often too broken
to even gain a second glance. They become
a monstrocity, a thing of discomfort,
too easy to discard.

About this poem.

About things. About people. At another time in my life, about me. We are too willing to discard.

Poetry is never about one thing.

Tom

PS:: The Photograph was taken at the Washington (NY) County Antique Fair. One of my favorite things to do each year.