(Non)Fiction

The story was revealed

Like a snowflake, instantaneous and everlasting in its wonder.

Yet misuse made the words tissue-thin,

Ripping away at their bindings

And stretching their margins.

So she delicately fingered each antique page,

As if the parchment itself would slip through her fingers

Like the rivers of fantasy that

Flowed between "once upon a time" and "the end".

As her eyes drifted from line to line,

The words entangled her

In their embrace of child-like hyperbole.

Protected from the erosion of this world,

They spoke of finding oneself

And living dreams

By staying positive,

Walking through those magnetic fields

Of blissfully disguised temptation

While still keeping one's feet on the ground.

But as her glace drifted away from the pages,

The knights in shining armor

Became assassins disguised in polished tin,

The white fairy dust that makes one fly

Only witches' brew and curses.

The idealized fantasy clearly had no place in the world

But upon dusty, forgotten shelves.

Yet, fueled by the spells of her own desire,

She shapes her future by making a single wish.

Gobbling up her triumphs,

She stands tall

And shrinks away

When that biting sip of defeat passes her lips.

And every day, she conquers new territories by facing new enemies

Which are merely the reflections of a warped mirror.

So is this storybook tale meant to stagnate in the imagination

And fade within the pages of crumpled, misused parchment?

Or is this merely an account of the lifetime of a man,

A woman,

A nation,

Ourselves,

That a child gazes upon, wide-eyed with wonder?