Delicate feathers of white
lay flat,
eased by the lake
under the sun’s warmth.

If only this princess
this imaginative pauper
could be the swan,
eased with warmth.

But no princess
such as this
could ever be the swan
she can never kiss the prince.

Warmth does not ease her
she loves the cold
waves do not please her
they tease her.
Kisses are not real
they come with regret
to her she could never be
the swan in a fairytale
without upsets.

The princess
is no princess
just a pauper in the way.
Her prince
is no prince
just an outcast
hiding from day.

Alas her castle
is her cage
and home
is far, far away.

Lies and stories
told at bed time
fill her mind with dreams
she can never find.

In this world
where she only does what’s real
even her imagination
is empty of zeal.

The swan resting daintily
in front of her eyes
only fills her with tears
that she tries to hide.

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