Eleven Fifty.
I see a nifty reporter fixing his tie,
Sipping in a teacup, drinking Chai.
He surveys the room for that moment of magic,
Not forgetting that the nature of his story is tragic.
He tells others that the invitation was a welcome gift,
Providing him the chance to debunk a particular myth.
The castle halls were filled with chatter and laughter
Spills of wine from wine glasses were happy disasters.
Eleven Fifty-two.
Night sky projects its color downwards,
Painting the city blue.
Stars mysteriously align with illuminating glow
As the chatter dies down, readying for a show.
With midnight approaching, beautiful words begin to appear,
engraved on the castle walls;
“you are the stars that ignite in the darkness of night.”
“…to where we stood.”
“I wish it was me.”
“I wish it was me.”
Recorded history of infinite love is all that I could see.
Eleven Fifty-Four.
A certain “Morty” is devouring shrimp to my left.
Ordering forty more, he's clearly satisfying his heft.
Our eyes meet for a second, my head nods
As if it’s a secret of his that I’ve already kept.
Eleven Fifty-Six.
It’s raining, a condition for her to “be”.
“Ooh’s” and “Ah’s” in the crowd but I can’t really see.
Time has stopped as the dance floor clears,
Anxious about this myth as midnight nears.
Eleven Fifty-Seven.
It’s not a myth at all - there she is! A living angel from heaven
Gracious in presence, magnificent in beauty,
We're staring at the star of a wonderfully vivid movie.
She’s wearing a silk-woven concoction of a crimson red dress,
A mask covering her face, necklace bears a family crest.
Legend says the people will witness her choice, hence
Her index finger points with a high-pitched voice.
Deafening silence for a moment… and then…
She picks a gentleman. That lucky *******.
Envious women are criticizing her; “Husky. *****. Witch.”
The man looks honored, almost intimidated
With her by his side, he clearly appears vindicated.
He takes her hand, and presses her body with his
And stares deeply into her eyes,
But what he saw staring back
Was a tragic tale he didn’t realize.
The music brings the Midnight Princess to life
As their spirits move in unison, like husband and wife.
They dance, and in that small infinity, I'm lost in awe
Her lovely waltz on the floor moving without a flaw
Beautifully elegant art in motion
Is all that everyone saw.
Eleven Fifty-Nine.*
*This man is running out of time.
He needs to convince her to stay
Before she vanishes away.
The myth supposedly goes like this:
If rain continues to pour past midnight,
That gentleman hopeful would be futile in his fight
For her heart, blinded by her gracious and kind sight,
Not wanting to regret his actions in hindsight.
He holds her tight, their union a great show,
But he only had a minute, forty seconds ago.
The ballroom rallies in hope for this man to catch her by his glove
As he promises her tomorrow, and proclaiming his love.
The rain is heard from inside the castle corridors
The clock strikes midnight, chiming in three sets of four
And she fades, with the audience awe-struck by the gleam
Convincing us all she was naught but a dream.
We wished it were him.
We wished it were him.
Hoped he would lift the curse.
She left him feeling worse.
They looked perfect together, but
She deserves forever.
It’s an experience witnessing magic without a fault
And she sadly hadn’t been seen ever since.
I pray she returns to dance an endless waltz
With her one and only fairy tale prince.
Dedicated to a fellow poet friend.