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| The Touch of her Masters Hand |
| A broken porcelain doll, lays upon the shelf, Untouched by human hands, since the day she feel apart, Once a beautiful figure, now beyond recognition, her clothes once silky white, now of dark ebony. Made of porcelain, so unable to feel, Emotions of hurt, happiness, joy and sorrow, Once a delicate figure so highly admired, Now, just a shattered piece of unvalued material. Pearls of dull sapphire, gaze down below, Observing the movements of humans, Hoping, praying to be noticed by them, To take time to fix her once more. Still, she lays motionless upon the wooden plinth, Longing for the touch of human kindness, Tears flowing upon cold, china cheeks, Forgotten by all, out of sight, out of reach. Darkness surrounds her, daylight has gone, A silvery moon shines upon her, Gazing down she continues to pray, To be noticed, touched, mended some day. Closing her eyes, she drifts off into slumber, Thoughts in her head as she dreams, Days past, long ago, The times she spent with her Owner. Suddenly she wakes, feeling warmth upon her, Blinking softly, unable to move her broken figure, A familiar touch, yet unknown to her, she rises off the shelf. Helpless in the hands she finds herself in, her eyes spring wide open, mesmorised, Feeling gentleness from a strong grasp, As fingers start to mend each broken piece. Little by little, day by day, her brokeness tendered by the love from Him, Holding her, nurturing her, a slow process begins, Painful, yet filled with compassion. she sits upon the wooden plinth, Waiting for His longing touch, Mending her, healing her, making her anew, A beautiful figure starts to shine through. Dark ebony clothes, ragged and torn, No longer seen upon her form, Instead, her eyes blink at the colourful splendour, Feeling her Masters touch, she surrenders. |
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| (03-06-05) |