To the tune of a music box ballet,
forever twirling on illusion's gilded spring,
break free of its continual reprise
and glide thy slippers, gently over the fresh sting.

 

Draw thy spectral arrow with the thunder,
make way for resonating hooves in the distance,
for a storm cometh on the whistling winds
preceded by a winged messenger's assistance.

 

Drumbeats rumble in the belly of the beast
pounding a measured rhythm against heaven's gate
as mystic serpents crack wide the borders,
to enter dimensions channelized by the fates.

 

Waiting ladies groom unwavering brows
and tend the garden, overrun by creeping weeds
that smother Briar low a haunting tune,
a requiem for beauty, who endlessly bleeds.

 

So smooth silken petals along the cold
and upon cobweb's finery, pin heirloom's brooch.
For in thy ball gown of Ever After,
goest symphony's princess in Death's ghostly Coach.

 

©2005 c.t. gross