It's not the real you it's a story

of the dollmaker
who built the world and you
a doll made of peoplestuff.

​The dollmaker stuffed you
full to bursting with longing
and urges. So you set yourself
to filling the dollhole
(the funeral march of the dolls!)

I was a doll for a time
but now, well,
I'm a whole dollfull

or
you grow weary or
injuries add up or
you lose your love of dolldom
(dolling around is all we've ever known!)
Awake! you suspect
another way—outside the playroom
still dollish but . . . lighter?

the door to the playroom is:
secret? heavy?

What is outside the playroom
you ask the other dolls.
One beams you a dollsmile.

​