She steps off her pedestal of tinsel's facade,
willingly plummeting into the darkness of her abyss,
midnight's chamber where her heart's secrets swim.
By day she wears her diadem of smiles,
the sculpted expectations from her princess world,
full of fairy tales, but bereft of passion's light.
Dwelling in her suburbia castle
a knight's trophy mannequin,
queen and goddess molded by social clay,
dying on the inside, rotting from love's decay.
So she falls from her pristine prison
out of the loneliness that is her bed,
into the blackness of her pillow
to paradises of perfect paramours
where ecstasy sweeps through her soul
in waves of sighs from bitten lips.
Night her only writhing game
that she ever plays,
for when one dwells in Camelot
no matter the sadness nor emptiness.
you never run away
being a prisoner to fear
of what others might think
offers no promise of reprieve
unto one's life sentence in a plastic life.
Bronze trophy winner
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