The Dollmaker’s Curse

The Dollmaker’s Curse

Carved from bone and woven hair,
Eyes of glass with hollow stare,
Lace and silk on wooden frame,
Souls entwined in puppet’s name.

Hands that craft with cursed delight,
Stitching breath into the night,
Dollmaker hums a twisted song,
Bringing life where life went wrong.

Dance, dance, little doll,
Twist and turn until you fall,
Heart of wax and soul of thread,
In the Dollmaker’s curse, you’re never dead.

Silent mouths that never scream,
Sewn-up lips with crimson seam,
Waltz of death in dusty halls,
Porcelain hearts that crack like walls.

On the shelf, where cobwebs cling,
Crimson threads like puppet strings,
Eyes that blink but never see,
Dreaming of the life they’ll never be.

Brittle joints and fractured grace,
Spinning in the cursed embrace,
Dollmaker grins with needle keen,
Binding souls in porcelain sheen.

Dance, dance, little doll,
Twist and turn until you fall,
Heart of wax and soul of thread,
In the Dollmaker’s curse, you’re never dead.

Morning light won’t break the spell,
Frozen dolls where shadows dwell,
And in the quiet, soft and grim,
The Dollmaker hums his haunting hymn.