he buried them
in neat little rows
across his backyard
doll heads
in mason jars
staring up at him
in tiny sealed
watery graves

each of them
one of his sins
still in tangles
of hair like
seaweeds suspended
watching vigilantly
awaiting the next

he would stand
sobbing alone
staring back at them
incapable of atoning
for the things
he had done
the judging painted eyes
unblinkingly solemn
each a black mark
on his stained
glass soul