To await the light

A face of wood with a risen chin,
To twirl upon her needle toes.
A broken doll with splintered skin,
As she dances with an aching pose.

A lily white sky of perfect hands,
Did carve her silken thighs of oak.
A perfect figure of the day lit lands,
To wrap her in a paper cloak.

So sweet and small, the ticking tune,
The measuring of her silent heart.
The heart that embraced a fallen moon,
To stitch the earth of sunken art.

Her neck to stretch and yearn for light,
To lean and spy the leather stars.
Her dripping fingers under sleeves so tight,
They tear to cast her wooden scars.

A sugar soaked mouth to drink the sun,
Watching eyes to abandon tears.
Her narrow heels that cannot run,
She hears the tune with pointed ears.