The Doll House.

A doll, a thing of beauty to play with.

The walls have been built and life hammered into the perfect shape to fit within thorny fences of rights and the wrongs. A neat little box of a tidy life, placed inside the gates of suburban righteousness. How couldn't it be so, when the storms have been pushed outside with life deodorised and sanitised ? The doors locked and bolted from within ? No matter how hard the doll tries to sneak out, from under the barred doors of an imprisoned mind and peep through the fiery key holes of forbidden desires, she draws back in suffocating censure.
Ensured loyalty.
Insured fidelity.

She built the walls. She locked the doors. She threw the keys away. She hammered away at herself and fit in. A chisseled mannequin of perfection offered at the altar of life's demands. And then trickling through time her little box was tidy nomore . Nothing but charred rubble, at the doorstep of igniting passion. Visible but invisible beyond the high suburban walls. A hollow shell. The battered gates hang perilously. On righteous hinges still. On the verge. On the edge. Beyond reason. Between wrong and right. Whats right and whats wrong anymore, when wrong feels so right and right is no more ???

And so she pleads with herself. To release herself. From Herself.
To rise from the ashes. Like the Phoenix.
To build herself.
Once more.