From the dimly lit
picture frame
She begs silently
with her colours,
Her eyes
are bright.
Her colours,
dull.
The nail is a little bit loose in the wall
It moves with the children's footsteps.
The hole's deep, dark and
becoming wider, with each step
for the nail that's a little bit too loose in the wall.
It's from age
and that which comes with it.
The light won't make things change
for the better
Restoration will take away
from her that which resembles a soul.
The dim lights had no meaning,
they were never the problem at all.
It was the near darkness that
protected the nearly extinguished.
Turning up the brightness only
scorches, the already ashen
garb she models.
Don't blow on it
specks of dust, old memories
and cold ashes
are harder to gather through
the gentlest winds.
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