A Cinderella Story
That even Dickinson could not tell
The repertoire that is my body
Slowly collapsing--
As the grave birds alarm for arrival.
I speak to someone that is no one
For strength and guidance within.
Yet anticipated signs only result--
In disappointing strains.
Those demons, they say,
They fill us with fear.
Silhouetting us with cloaks
That haven’t a beginning nor end.
They are made from our troubles--
Our hardships, our pain.
We know where they come from
But will never know their names.
What to do is to ignite
Burn the bridges, light the night.
As Cinderella did in that baby blue dress,
We’ll be alright.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 12:16 PM UTC
A Cinderella Story
That even Dickinson could not tell
The repertoire that is my body
Slowly collapsing--
As the grave birds alarm for arrival.
I speak to someone that is no one
For strength and guidance within.
Yet anticipated signs only result--
In disappointing strains.
Those demons, they say,
They fill us with fear.
Silhouetting us with cloaks
That haven’t a beginning nor end.
They are made from our troubles--
Our hardships, our pain.
We know where they come from
But will never know their names.
What to do is to ignite
Burn the bridges, light the night.
As Cinderella did in that baby blue dress,
We’ll be alright.
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