A doll,
not yet unpackaged
is frightened if the world
beyond her plastic case.
It is dirty
and dangerous.
Whereas her prison is safe.
She can see
out into the light
through the warped cellophane
watching lives begin
and fade away.
There is a man with wings;
fanatical and arrogant.
He flew too high
and fell.
Faster than a shooting star,
finally reaching his demise
on twisted rocks.
And the doll
thinks to herself:
It is not perfect
where I am.
But it is better
to be here, than
caked in mud
and dashed to pieces
reaching towards the sky.
