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Late for the Ball
This morning is sadness
words I discover
leave me a lonely bluebird
in ruins of an ancient bird bath,
pecking residue of crusted moss.
Where is the life in this lost tale?
Skeletons of horses, a rotted pumpkin
wait to escort Cinderella
in aftermath of holy war.
I should have been here yesterday
when statues of cherubs
pissed fountains of fresh water.
I could have drank from
the silver cup,
worn silk ribbons in my hair.
What's left, but I'm sorry.
They didn't like you.
You weren't chosen
to light a prince's eye.
You were a mistake they tried to erase.
You came too late.
You'll just have to accept,
you were nothing but a stupid girl
that didn't understand.
Fly away bluebird.
There's nothing for you here
just bones of a dead dream.
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