Fingernails of moonlight pierce the shrink-
wrapped ideal of a dream, pristine crescents of
claws the colour of puddles of ivory
dripped onto rosy flesh, slivers of

milk stripping from rest its protective cover,
streams of scratches un-boxing with diligence
some malevolence this particular pitch
of blackness seeks to unsex, seven

devilish unspoken requests mingling fierce
windstorms of dust with the heritage
of this childhood relic, how sleep seems
so anachronic in the inky

hands of twilight’s author, silence offering
no pardon to its prisoners, night’s
end too close in sight to portend what
might have been, since when these dolls wake dawn

will have made off with their innocence, plastic
that parents purchase, faking concern
for toys whose echoed cries their cavernous homes
leave broken, the only hope that reflected

in the glass of their rolling eyes, hearts
pounding like hammers against marble,
theft sculpting from chaos another
place for another trophy, champions that

we all are of a myth that continues to
fail us, refusing its truth, that life
is no mystery, but each year here
a monument to what must be, for

those who have gone forth before, yet another
century of abuse, existence
an injustice for those who make do
with making do in a universe

whose cruel limits are known only
to him who sentenced our souls to perish in
it, parrots that dreamers are who squawk
into the dark uncertain of who

or where they are, every footfall
of slumber another uncle under the
covers, some belovèd henchman of
their destruction known to the victim

hunting for a way in, love not shown
burns the film when exposed to its projection’s
brilliance, scraping from its captives what
layers make of them such compelling

characters, the pathos painful and
perfect when unscripted, a wounded
and magical thing almost better
than it was before once torn from its

original packaging, its curse’s forced,
careless rewording turning every last
degenerate sorcerer into
some sort of discerning collector,

every ending of the world into a
vehicle of dusk from which, one of
these times, the sun might pull himself up
after he crashes, rising from our ashes.