Dollhouse

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In a room of silent echoes, she stands tall,
A doll with porcelain cracks, bound to fall,
Her painted smile, forever in place,
But beneath her fragile face,
A clown, small and tender, hides in the shade,
In the shadows where her heart's serenade is played.

Broken limbs dangle, marionette strings tied tight,
Wounds etched deep, bruises in the twilight,
Bandages whisper secrets of past sorrow,
A carousel spins, both joy and pain to borrow,
Inside her chest, hollow and deep,
Where her vulnerable heart does silently weep.

Round and round the carousel sways,
A ceaseless dance, through night and days,
Next to organs, raw and throbbing in time,
A merry-go-round, a relentless chime,
In her trunk, the cavity vast,
Where love's hope and resilience are cast.

She's become a machine, a robot in lace,
Performing, seeking that one special face,
Each limb she gives, each part she sacrifices,
For a smile from you, at any price,
Her love unreturned, a silent plea,
Her broken self, longing for you to see.

Yet still she stands, a symbol of love's despair,
A broken doll, a clown so rare,
Spinning, spinning, her heart's carousel turning,
In the theater of her soul, forever yearning.

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