poetry by Emily Burksa
I still can recall when these faces around me
were shining, untouched, porcelain dolls,
with no mud caked in their aging cracks
and their smooth, white surfaces knew no flaws;
When hope still shone in those painted eyes,
long before the colors did chip or fade;
and when they watched from their shelves in awe
as I promised to make them proud someday.
This was many years past, I am sure,
but the only true sign is the way they have aged.
Nobody warned me how fragile they were,
or I’d have surely found them a better place.
But, alas, they stay up on my shelves, broken,
fated to watch as I break them some more,
and break promises made about making them proud,
and break myself, too, with their glass on my floor.
Porcelain faces should not be left
in the care of someone unknowing or young,
for when they grow up in remains of hope shattered,
they’ll turn back in shame and wonder what they’ve done.
