way back there were he and she
soft and new, loved by the fairies
adored by the evil enemy,
of course,there was the enchanted wood,the magic sword,
a dragon to behead,
but most of all there was a poor hostel room with a bed.
oh, what a bed !!!!!
it was so beautiful, but only to the count of ten
i loved her as a prince and as a beggar
i thought i'd never love again,
becoming fictious in my kingdom's pit
where fiction doesn't hurt,it only makes you drier,
just a little bit...
i put a blanket over me
and dreamt about me writing poetry,
i drank too much to wash my brain,
i blew over the pages ,hoping i could mask the pain.
in here i ceased to open yellow letters
from my rusty p.o. box,i broke,
i fought and cut the vacuum
and it grew back around the castle of the joke
i cursed the rotten golden apples,
i killed my windy and beloved, helpless horse,
i blamed it on the karma of my stupid lives,
perhaps it was an old, untold remorse,
as she alone was innocent,a weeping state of art,
and as for me,i was the prince,the dragon,
i was the story with the final chapter torn apart -
i wanted her to write it over,
to get, somehow, a closer look,
i had to love her and i have to love her still -
to keep the story in the book ......