A crescent moon,
A slender tree,
A dripping a mouse
Running down the snowfield
Blood on the tips of the world
At the end of the bridges,
A gently curving dune of sand
Shaped by the wind,
Explosions of amber in the skies,
A mouse traces the curve of your eyes,
Beautifully twisted
A wrought-iron gate lies at the top
Of the stairway to heaven,
Slender ends hold the wold aloft
The edges are a perfect fit,
You must be Cinderella!
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