Prison of Words

Belle

Dreams of Delusion,

A little hope, perhaps a touch of illusion.

The painting colors itself.

The red rose bleeds some more,

My time is near,

My limbs are sore.

 

Was it a petal that fell this time?

Time, you see, is just a construct.

Cogsworth taught me that,

As Lumiere brightened those nights in the library,

Its ladders and trove of unfinished stories so very abstract.

 

The castle grows by the day,

Perhaps it stares me down in the curtains of the night.

The Beast no longer forbids me from stepping into the West Wing,

There are a thousand voices now, you see,

Happiness dances in denial of reality.

 

The rooms are filled with hopeful chatters now,

They say the prince is a beast no more,

That a beauty once came and reminded him,

He was human so very long ago.

Some call me his savior,

The others fear me to be an enchantress,

Hidden still, waiting, foreboding, behind the mask of a pretty face.

 

And so I hide,

I hide and I step out in the nights,

For the days are a stage,

The darkness a delight.

When the angel statues feel like the gargoyles of old,

When the polished curtains remind me of the torn covers, so very worn.

 

Beast

I watch her, oh Beauty, I watch you!

She walks into the cavernous library,

Asking so much from her provincial life,

And receiving so much more.

Gaston no longer leers at her,

His corpse still rotting, meat and bones now one, some thousand feet underneath,

Lost in some unremembered gorge.

 

And she sits, and she reads,

She dreams, and she forgets,

Only to spin the wheel of memories once again.

But every now and then,

When she makes a home in the prison of her words,

Those doe-brown eyes begging to be stared at for a lifetime of bliss,

I remember the dying rose,

That lonesome beautiful fragility,

And I wish, oh I wish,

That Beauty pricks those pale fingers once,

Only to lose herself in the color of crimson,

Unaware of the lingering red,

The petals or her bleeding death.

 

 

 

 

 

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