A discard doll

I slipped from the Manor's upstairs into the trash bin.
My hair burnt, eyes removed and they amputated my hands.
I stuck in the leftovers, among the stench I cannot see anything
And I write on a broken slate with a piece of chalk which gripped by my right foot's fingers.
Darkness is better than a true vision.
And I think of the new doll who sings well in the upstairs.
I humbly pray for her a long-life in the Mansion.

*[ Australian Man throws the daughter off bridge. A morning News.]

I dedicate this poem to innocent street children where they sleep under the same transparent sky.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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