I hear a chime.
Is it my time?
I long to gleam
and wear the seams
of a beautiful costume,
with horses trotting,
horses with snorted breaths
like fumes.
They tell me, 'I'm orange'.
They tell me, 'I'm round'.
They tell me, 'I'm special'.
I hear a chime.
It's not my time.
There goes a slave,
unraveling to a princess.
She's brave.
My bed's a knot of vines.
I'm full of pulp and seeds.
There's a pretty fairy,
she's sweet like Virgin Mary,
no need to be wary.
She's a dried rose
and stuck in a timeless pose
in a moving picture.
She helps the slave
but finally, what else do they need?
A seed.
Something.
To turn into a coach.
There are my horses,
with snorted breaths
like fumes, from mice.
How nice.
But they're for the brave
damsel.
They march to me.
I wait for the pain
and my gain.
They cut a cirlce
and scooped out the pulp.
Had I a voice, a choice,
I'd screamed.
But tonight,
I see the light
at the end of the tunnel.
Until midnight,
I am a coach.
Who was I?
~
