I once waltzed with feminine regality,
A radiant image of Cinderella,
Yet at the strike of a funeral bell,
Our Bal Masque was over,
And she fled,
Her carriage whisked aloft on the stars,
All pumpkins and fairy tales,
Leaving a glass slipper in my hand,
A reticent crystalline reminder,

Perhaps ensorcelled,
Or a talisman of a some Godmother,
Carved of pure diamond,
A spot of wine on the pointed heel,
It reflected my visage,
I was never a prince,
More of a goblin king,
A lich,
A villain of a Grimm tale,

And like a mirror,
Laid bare were all the reasons she left,
And who she was.

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