They placed them there.
Where they should never
have been.
Blind broken toys,
searching,
     searching,
          searching.

Crows can become doves,
under the right light.
Where moths swoop,
and swoon:
The summer’s death-kiss.
Where hate replaces
lies.

And the body
frames.
Impossible projections.
Where imagined potential
overcomes.
The truth,
of broken toys.

One fixed,
one forgotten:
Left dancing.
Alone with autumn’s butterflies.