Running towards her pumpkin
At the stroke of midnight
Her lost slipper upon the stair
In the silver majestic moonlight
The fairytale turns to dust
As the witching hour begins
Down in the forgotten cellar
Her sorrow and pain she sings
So not to loose her memories of this night’s enchantment
She tearfully produces ink of thoughts onto peasant parchment
Recumbent but weary on her bed of mice invested hay
Crying her self to sleep still and alone Cinderella lay
The next morning prince charming comes round
With the clear glass slipper he had found
A gentleman he lowers down on one knee, while Cinderella sits
Drawing eloquent smiles as the slipper perfectly fits