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The Fairy Tale Is Over
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January - June 2004 Cruel clouds creep over the purple-bricked castle,
As the splintering sounds of shattering dreams
Ring out like a church bell as the girl screams,
Her bright white teeth gently glisten,
As her mouth widens to try to put her pain into sound,
But no soul bothers to listen.
Falling from her arms are soft, tawny feathers,
And the wings that used to stand proudly from her back are torn,
And clipped.
The fairy tale is over.
I was born to die today.
