Dolls House

Building on a foundation of sand
The house was never meant to stand tall.
It had no ladder, no staircase, and no key
Just a lock.

When the chimneys were lopsided,
The windows were cast with shade
The front door always too small
And the long mirrors were already turning webs onto the floor.

Its ceilings had been lowered, hung, drawn and quartered
By the bitter-sweet nothings falling in the night.
The porcelain china lay loud on draped tables
And the arranged cutlery clattered on its handkerchief

Its carpets were flung with baubles and tinsel
The tinted walls were pleasing, urging,
Bothering for both sides to fight.

But still it had no ladder, no staircase, and no key
Just a lock.

Room to room the frames empty
Filled with nostalgic misgivings.
The Lamps burned lazily under a haze of dampness
Clinging, digging their claws into the walls.

Figurines of women stood in a hue of impatience
Their ornate umbrella’s pressing down onto their collar bones
The flushed pink cheeks
Pampering to their embarrassed smiles

The wooden sturdy doors stood proud
Holding their frames heavy
Inwardly whispering the hurried arguments
They were meant to disclose.

Bed sheets lingered on the stairwell
Mattresses longing for cover
Yet there they stayed, the small pleats folded in cold perfection.

But still it had no ladder, no staircase and no key
Just a lock.