Earthly Own

Sour Cherries

Daggers sharpened with eyes of red irritation.

Stoning dreams from roots of bed time stories.

Wishing to be the princess of pristine elegance,

and reign over subjects of hideous gems.

Lips moistened with expectations flair,

as one after the other leave with stale gloss.

Disappointment abusing the glass of hope.

With the clock of eternal bliss dwindling.

Alone she pinches her sanity to awaken,

to see into the hallowed tunnel of reality.

For she must see through beauty's illusion,

looking beyond new views of hard frailties.

Otherwise, another burst cherry will fall,

amongst the feet of free yet forlorn men.

Sweetened with the doleful air of trickery,

for her soul shall be sold to the devil.

Unless she is riding on the backs of lions,

with an all knowing sense, of sour tongues.

Yet to kiss the knights of brilliant silver,

and tempted by the devil's henchmen.