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The Cage of Glazed Clay

Upon the cushion, once, it sat so still,

A painted blush, a wide and vacant stare.

Eleanor’s logic couldn’t fight the chill,

Of that small figure, a shadow waiting there.

Its hands, in lace, reached for a muted chime,

A tinny lullaby that had no end.

It tapped a rhythm, marking stolen time,

A tiny terror that no mind could mend.

Then came the dawn, the horrifying click,

As the Dollhouse, a miniature of dread,

Revealed her fate, a masterpiece of sick

And endless silence for the living dead.

But when the binding of the names was crossed,

The Porcelain Pact began to tear.

The smiling shell no longer seemed quite lost,

But grew to fill the cold and frantic air.

No longer a trinket, bound by thread and wire,

It was the Vessel, ancient, cold, and cruel.

It shrieked its agony against the fire,

A fragile master that had lost its rule.

It burned in porcelain, a final, melting light,

The essence of the curse consumed by flame.

A quiet doll that broke the modern night,

And left a shiver where a truth became a name.

The Porcelain Pact Warning

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