Tiny painted dolls,
I flip through a gallery of the dead
Out of curiosity, of morbid fascination
With how death's wings brush on a white sheen
Mottled canvas, but each one with its
Sculpted lips in perfect Shiseido red.
Little polished fingertips
Clownish, I think.
Rude, even.
That this strange and tragic thing
Should be hand-drawn in crayon,
In magic marker.
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