To think in narrative, is a living fairytale.
Not of those read as a child.
But of extinction and squalor.
The raw ache of a love nearly told.
The wreckage of damaged goods.
Lost minds a casualty of defective desire.
Shredded particles of tenderness withheld.
A gleaming crypt in the sunshine, while life posesses the shadows.
Interminable woe in an aura of bloodshed.
Rare is the "happily every after."
A dismal epilogue the usual reiteration.
Slivers of a daydream shines through the blighted dusk.
But the narrative insists on the fairytale.