He was the one that never was but could have been,
if life and fate intersected much earlier on, though she was
different then and he wasn’t ready yet.
In her mangled version of forever,
the fairy tale dies in the end.
So she drinks her crimson silk, regret growing distant as the
setting sun while
time pours out the tears of ages upon Eden’s arid plains.
Her phantasm slips away between sanguine drops irrigating the
bed of roses under which her favorite secrets lie.
She tilts her head back and laughs as a screeching eagle dives, keen
eyes absorbing the last lights of day.
His outstretched talons stab at madness carrying off the fallacies
of an early spring.
Her knighted horse had wings, she muses, skeletal as the
He rode on whispered tears doling out fantastic smiles,
none of which he saved for her as she danced amid delusion in
the scarlet morning sun.
They lived encircling this odd stupor carving out sorrow and
their flaccid kisses scorching opportunity,
unearthing tomorrow’s promises with clumsy, nearsighted flaws.
Now she sits in her perpetual creation envying the eagle’s
Her fairy tale is laid to rest with the fading streaks of dusk,
not at peace nor with her thoughts but where all broken things must go.
Plucking a rose she pierces her supple flesh
marking the end of foolish days, the epitaph of her fantasies.