Monday, June 08, 2009


She forgot tomorrow
till it was yesterday
and at the stroke of midnight
her dreams all danced away.

Her pumpkin coach had vanished;
the team, in disarray,
squeaked and fled for cover;
one slipper went astray.

Perhaps a prince, enamored,
found it where it lay
and searched the kingdom over,
her glass shoe on a tray.

Or wondering for a moment
why she didn't stay,
left it for the sweepers
like a discarded bouquet,

the aftermath of balls,
forgotten yesterday.

Stephen Brooke ©2009

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