The story in your eyes is illegible,
Just like your sub-standard scrawl.
The blinking of streetlights within,
Undelicately enveloped in fine shawl.
When someone cranes their neck,
Peering into the chamber of basilisk’s lair,
Their reflection is of their own cheque,
A body they wore, the pride they wear.
Fairy tales, wispy and light,
Are summarised in a single phrase,
“They lived happily ever after”,
But who will pen the bloodshed, the begging phase?
mayawrites 
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