THE CINDERELLA STORY

My glances are her life blood.
She thrives on them.

It loosens knots in her hair,
As she combs them through.

She bends to touch her glass shoe.

It's not twelve yet,and I see
Carriages,where pumpkins should have been.

"Don't go",a voice inside me screams.
Let her be,let her dance.
She's just found her voice,
Let her sing.

Let her be,
Mister Price Charming.