Yeah, so I wrote a poem.
It is exceedingly long.
8 verses, 7 lines to a verse.
A read and critique would be nice, if you can finish it.
9/10/08
My Gothic Cinderella
You nervously touch the dark lace of your gown
And glance at me as if I’m not real
I’m your saving grace, and yet still you frown
As I calmly elucidate my theatrical deal.
‘I’m your Fairy Godmother’, I explain,
‘And you, my dear, are going to be royal with fame.’
You stare at me, as if I’m a hallucination, or insane.
‘Trust me’, I assure you, sounding oh-so compelling,
‘He’ll love you for you. No questions raised.’
You slowly nod, and I know that I’m done selling
I smirk as you smile, for you are no longer dazed
You twirl in your dress, and look happily amazed.
The seven black horses stamp and neigh
I stand there, motionless, and am entirely unfazed.
As the dark lace vanishes in the carriage, I seal the door
Your swift ebony entourage whisks you away
I watch until they cross the moor
I prize your naïveté; you’d rather die than stay
And by the end of the night, you’ll be kneeling to pray
Without enough courage to face the day.
No more work; it’s my night to play.
You arrive at the ball, nervous and worried
My words of false encouragement forgotten, shoved aside
Your vision is swimming, and your breathing hurried
And right now, a steady heartbeat isn’t something you can provide.
For you’ve spotted the source of the fawning desire
Of the wealthy young women, who might all be liars
And the minute you spot him, your heart sets on fire.
He appears so miserable, and he looks for a way out
Upon seeing you, his eyes alight
You’re filled with joy, but also with doubt
Could your Fairy Godmother have truly been right?
Soon, he is blindly fighting his way through
Wanting in earnest to dance with you
And hopefully wishing that you want to dance, too.
You’ve forgotten the clock, and it’s a long ride back to the field
I’ve told you midnight, or threatened the punishments great
You don’t want to leave, and he doesn’t know the deal
And so I’ve had my fun, deciding your tragic fate.
The clock strikes eleven, and yet it seems like it’s nine
What you don’t realize is that you’re far from fine
For it was when you first signed in blood that you ran out of time.
The clock strikes again, and you look up and gasp
The Prince looks at you in surprise
It is late, you must go, no questions asked
He does not understand, and you cannot bear to tell lies.
You leave him on the balcony, and race to the stairs
Not stopping or acknowledging the gasps and the glares
You pant as you realize that you do not care.
Then, your misfortune; the catastrophic flaw in your little would-be ‘happily ever after’.
Your slippers fall and shatter, now just broken glass
Yet you leave them behind, and flee with your heart
And that gothic pumpkin carriage is coming up so fast
You leave your Prince kneeling on the stairs, guarding who you are.
For I have lied to you.
I have lied to others, too.
I am not your Fairy Godmother; I am a fallen angel, and this is what I do.
For your days of glass slippers and happy endings are over, my Gothic Cinderella.
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