In every sense, plastic...flawlessly perfect, as no creature really is. You bear a marked resemblance, to something true, as you appear...in every scene...where 'self' would be, yet, a lens is more aware. I follow you and watch, you clever thing.
You are cold to the touch, no binding human loyalty, no heart, or pain...nor experience of anything, in my world at all. Your glassy eyes look so...genuine. You peer at us, with promise, for an hour, then...you wander off, to somewhere else...always with your perfect, form of fluid grace.
Appearances, aren't everything. Though, every man, and every woman too...watch you, in unbelieving awe, so finely tuned, is your machine of faux humanity. I don't believe, God made you...and I never will. You're 'almost' like the real stuff...but 'something's' off.
You are a 'rack' of malleable dolls, looking good in any set, fully versed in conversation...with a hint of etiquette, always placed, on cue...before the richest men, to turn 'precisely' on a heel, flashing just the right amount of fine long leg. You have no story to tell.
Thus, mysterious and beautiful, mistaken for a lovely child, they follow you, and wonder, but you never were...a child...were you. What you are, I have no notion, but 'alive', oh, no...whatever, you've become, isn't life at all...you are a very pretty doll, though. Have a nice...time? I'm sure you will.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: beautiful girl, google pic
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