Cinderella

She hears the calls of the blackened crows lurking in dark shadows under broken street lamps gouging at carrion of the recently perished.

Carriages, made of pumpkin footmen, changing to mice of men, to rags of riches, Cinderella sags in spells of magic dead, back in chains she will go, with jester's lies from hell's flow...

Her glass slipper shatters in the taste of wine to caress her ruby red lips that would be devine, stalking the night alone

she screams like a banshee lost out on the moors, where doors of castles chambers stay closed tight as the damned crows take flight.