Haunted Mannequin's

Haunted Mannequins

They stand so still,

faces turned to the light,

eyes that never blink,

shadows caught in their stare.

I walk past them,

wondering what they know,

as the shop doors close,

and the town falls quiet.

Their pale hands rest,

frozen in a gentle pose,

as though waiting,

for someone to speak.

In the silent glass,

they watch the world drift,

trolleys rolling by,

children rushing home.

They never move,

yet every night feels charged,

as though their dreams

float through the dark.

I sense their stories,

locked behind smooth skin,

tales of borrowed clothes,

and faces carved too calm.

Some lean together,

heads tilted in a secret way,

as if sharing thoughts,

no one else can hear.

Some stand alone,

lost in a quiet corner,

holding a pose

that feels like longing.

Their eyes follow me,

or so it seems,

as I drift between aisles,

feeling a strange pull.

I picture them waking,

only when we sleep,

walking the empty floors,

stretching their stiff limbs.

Still they return,

before sunrise creeps in,

to the stillness

they wear like a second skin.

I wonder at times,

whether they envy us,

hearts that race,

voices that tremble.

Or whether they pity us,

seeing our fears,

our hurried steps,

our storms of thought.

They stand unchanged,

season after season,

holding their places,

in a world that shifts.

In their painted calm,

there is something haunting,

as though they know

how short our time is.

So I linger near them,

reading their silence,

feeling a cold truth,

resting in their gaze.

They remain waiting,

while the world keeps turning,

and I walk away,

still carrying their stare.