The Man Made of Porcelain

Paper thin, the light shone through him.

He sat for years on the shelf

Gathering dust, untouched, unheld.

Delicate, pretty for a man,

With nimble fingers on fragile hands

He never tried to breathe,

Never walked, just stood in

Frozen exile amidst wire angels

And scented candles.

On the other side of the room

A slender woman in a ballgown

Fans her face. A brittle beauty

Etched by the maker’s hands.
Like him, she has known

Nothing but time. Known nothing

But the gentle dramas that unfold

In their living room. He would

Love to reach her if he could

But instead stands in silence,

Afraid of the day his head

Is struck from his neck, afraid

of inevitable fragmentation