BE THY OWN PALACE
Seated beside her
in the pew
her doll listened intently
to the Saviour who
emerges from
the old priest's mouth
an ectoplasm of words
as He manifests before her.
"Is there a doll heaven?"
she wonders.
Her little mistress however is
bored very bored indeed
much more interested in
a sunbeam genuflecting
before the altar
extinguishing the priest's voice.
Or the ladybird
landing on a lady's foxfur
it more jewel
than the jewel worn.
Picking her nose
as the host is
held aloft
a bird perched upon
the left shoulder of
the crucifix
the Christ a mere cypher
how the artist
fancied HIm.
The crucified man smiling at her
despite how boring the sermon is.
Sunlight becoming colour
travelling through stained glass.
Her doll nods off
falling at her feet
"Shhhhhh!" father scolds
both doll and daughter.
Doll's head broken in four
nothing inside but an emptiness
all her thoughts
evaporated.
The smile still fixed
on her porcelain face.
Incense like death
walking upon the air.
The tiny ******
of a bell.
“Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail.”
John Donne