"Shape me like a blacksmith would forge their sword,
shape me to be the best doll you could have"
The witch was delighted — of course she'd indulge,
a sword was but everything she wanted to have.

But the witch was but a blacksmithing novice,
and the doll was made out of porcelain.
It endured the high heat, longing for change,
and braced, for it knew that Her strikes would bring pain.

The shards scattered around the floor,
an outcome one could easily expect,
for the doll was just made out of porcelain,
and not a piece of hot iron to shape.

The shards, on the floor, that was their past.
But the doll never knew, never thought, never asked.
It assumed that its purpose was something grand,
and not to be held, cherished, and loved.