She Looks Like A Princess

This morning arrives
expecting to find the same man,
who brushed by the clutching hands,
who takes the razors in the night
leaving only a hint of blood
to betray his passing.

But I am dry as a corpse,
bled alabaster,
oak leaf paper in autumn.
Reason has fled and with it
any hope of understanding.

Left for wolves at 1 am,
shoe-less and pigtailed
she walked unafraid,
wrapped in the grace of the innocent.

Who is your mommy honey?
" She works in a restaurant, and she looks like a princess"

What will become of this angel
when the machine tells her
there are no such things
as princesses anymore?

For today
I shall live in shadows,
afraid to open the papers
afraid,
that they'll tell me
the princess has died.

Gentlemen
I beseech you,

My kingdom for a miracle