A short poem, which tries to sum up the feelings of rejection and loneliness by thinking about how a toy would feel once it's owner no longer loved it. But of course, poems are about interpretation, so none of that particularly matters.
All but silence,
A mass of foliage,
So calm, so many hidden secrets.
A gathering of rubbish;
Bottles, sweet wrappers, unwanted leaflets.
Like second-hand goods
It stands up and walks, but softly,
Its footsteps barely visible.
How could you do this to me?
It whispers; words caught by the breeze.
Where is my home? My bed?
Too cold to speak.
Raining as it does,
The synthetic spheres that marked its face;
Peering, dominant, erringly scary,
Its matted fleece,
Its cold, cold face,
Its dead mind.