My Stepmother’s Peace

What is the magic
the aristocracy was entitled
to rule over us?
Binding us to society and
the rules of the unknown
and the unimportant,
the weak and the lost
only allowed to suffer.

What is the magic
where the thieves and fools
fight for bloodless gold?
Lulling my darkest
silence to slumber, lest
the compassion shatter
like glass slippers that
slay soft flesh.

What is the magic
of those forgotten words
of corrupt innocence?
Where birds were birds,
monsters were monsters,
the notion of humanity
slipping away from my
happy beginning.

What is the magic
that forces me to lust over
every failed perfection?
Prayers unspoken and
thoughts from promises
I’ve only begun to

remember.

But we can never go back to those times so
long before.
I can only hope that you’d come quietly in
through that chained door.

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