She turns from ashes to lonely,
She is no longer burnable.
no longer fuel, no longer passionate,
but as always hurt-able
vertical lines sweep peacefully up,
her slope and down through,
and there with a kiss, she awaits,
and hopes to crown you,
she's found you worthy,
and slips into glass slippers,
Past hitter miss,
And at last then get mad with her.
her tiara is bright, with jewels,
few have ever seen.
some are missing,
the two she needs to be a queen,
the night of 360 days,
passes as an hour,
ponder if she's your white rose,
or just another flower,
but she is gone,
the shoes are about to break,
it's almost midnight,
question: is she fake?