It cannot exist.
The sacrificial lamb has long been slaughtered,
blood has congealed yet still it stains our hands.
The empty echo of distant memories whistles through
the spring day as birds do as the Bee’s see.
I once asked the universe what am I to do, for never
will I fight for him, for you. The universe, she whispered
on the wings of a dragon fly,
‘But my darling, will you not even try?’
So I grabbed a book or two and we sat and read through,
Cinderella and her shoe,
Snow White feeling blue,
Belle who nearly never knew.
It’s a fairytale I tell her, a story full of lies,
so you see my precious universe,
‘There’s no need that I should try.’
Karen Hayward ©2016