the tales from the top shelf
don’t shine enough to be sold
—and nor does their hope
of ever being told
because the dust that engulfs her
becomes suffocating,
her porcelain pose and limbs
are just left there waiting,
as the time melts away
into sunlight to sundown
and the world that she lives in
becomes the emptiest ghost town
for her pretty face
was still easily forgotten
and the cracks in the mask
are decayed and rotten
her stories lost to the very top shelf,
are fading as memories grow old.
she matters not to him, nor to herself,
for what’s a story if never told?