In the Cellar

Years in isolation had primed her mind for overindulgence to even the faintest anomaly.

She has chosen her toys carefully.

Shared them only with those to whom she had entrusted.

As the hand of the watchmaker reaches into her basket,

It was hers to whom he had incited.

Left alone there was no due course,

To which she could duly oblige.

She ponders her enclosure;

And leaves her babies lined up straight,

As not to disturb her neighbors.

It ponders where she has hidden it's meal.

She begs it to reconsider it's choice.

Pleading that her baby has only three limbs,

But the watchmaker knows little of the hand that's missing.

So she throws her baby toward the sky;

Knows not where it will land,

Knows only when it will diverge from its upward trajectory.

Ostentatious renderings leave her babies upset and in the dark.

The rest lie concealed beneath her cape.