Something is familiar about this place
The way light dances on the hardwood floor
Fragments of broken glass
Light shines viciously through, splashing vibrant colors on pale faces
Plain white mannequins, splattered with paint
Blues, greens, reds, and yellows
It was art
They sit to still like dolls on a shelf, lifeless and focused
Their eyes are fixed
This place once filled with the hum of the choir is now silent and empty
These porcelain dolls, so still stare ahead,
Stare at me
Their eyes bore into the back of my neck, burn into the back of my neck
The air is cold and only the small light of candles gives warmth
They flicker in the corner in red glasses
They mock me as they sway freely
Plants full of life now seem stiff and plastic
Hard plastic with a thin layer of dust
This place
Something is unfamiliar about this place