Girl with the Porcelain Doll
It is not love you will find
As you enter in here, with
Your porcelain doll and your mind
Of a six-year-old. No one doubts
She adores you, with her big, dark eyes,
As faithful as sunrise, and as brief.
But she’s meek as a dried leaf
And no answer to the grief
That engulfs you. It is not love
You will find, not a bright-tongued
Bird, but the coo of a mourning dove,
And the flight of a sparrow.
Love lies elsewhere, and you
Must follow, though the path is narrow,
You and your porcelain doll.
Love is the voice that answers the silence.
Love is the terror that delights and appalls.
Love is the promise that never did run smooth.