A forgotten fairytale

The occasional irreparably cracked scarlet lipstick placed on a decaying oakwood dresser.

French windows that let in a waning moon weeping blood sapphire tears, washed up mermaids stuck in lifeless oceans, gentle moonlight dripping on broken tiaras and priceless wine spilt carelessly on loose floorboards, locked away in underground cellars.

A house made of frosted beach glass firmly buried under grains made of pearls and the helpless cries of dead prisoners, echoing in the mountains that surrounded us.