How my mother treats me, sweeping out the golden straw. <br />Only can it tilt us and it's us it can when only, <br />deeply in the girls our clear feelings show the crimson heels. <br />Arrows point out the doubts of what has yet to come. <br />Mask of crimson, the pupils of her green the silver hair, <br />made up is fate, face is fair the which she burns it up. <br />Just as suddenly like the wind when he arrives with fans, <br />and as I climb up the carriage steps it tilts. <br />He moves away now it retracts and it then begins again. <br />Each movement of the hand and arm sweet violin. <br />I am shy the palace is a worm like my dark hole. <br />Where I was kept like sour wine it can't be slipped. <br />Pinks and yellows red the rose from back to front. <br />Chalice like my being climbs the wall of sweet lilacs. <br />Grace this state I shine and the coming stars and years, <br />I hope each revolution yet to come slides up as night <br />must bring me down to what I am and my guilt for what was done. <br />The sound draws near the sound it is I wish corrosiveness. <br />Two arms one second hand of the clock which never heard.<br /><br />Is It Poetry<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cinderella-30/
