The End of Imagination
The castle lies empty and
forlorn,
atop the lone hill,
a glass coffin gleams,
still full,
once splendid,
the ballroom is now
deserted,
swathed in cobwebs and
gloom,
the yellow road is
crumbling,
and weeds push through the
stones,
a red hood lies torn on the
forest floor,
a bright slash against the
snow,
a glass slipper is broken,
shattered where it has
fallen,
all is still in the world
begotten by magic,
now long forgotten by
laughter,
this is the world killed
with fantasy,
when imagination has gone.
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