I am a princess. Climbing the metal castle

surrounded by the forest of julienned trees.

A pink tutu complete with a fortune of tulle

flows at my waist, replacing the cotton of

normalcy given that morning by the queen,

my army turning into peasants on the ground

below me. Fellow children who wish not to

play with royalty, fellow children who do,

but alas, this princess works alone.

Sliding down into the moat, swimming across

the wooden hot sea, I enter my limo, the red

skeleton of a car, pushing soldiers out of my

way. They obey their highness, they always do,

or their actions are blocked from memory, a

storm of denial sugarcoating my beloved fantasy.

The limo, transformed during the voyage into

a shimmering carriage, stops at a stable, four

trusty steeds at disposal for any who come

across them. One's fur the grey of used snow,

stomped upon by the hooves of peasants lasting

generations. Another the brown of rich milk

chocolate, named by those consumed with

hunger, to be used by the full returning from

high tea. A third the shimmering blonde as

the prince's hair, the appalling matte of gold,

the foil of the one before. The last, dark as

night, a hidden soul trapped behind the plastic

eyes, watching as wars pass, powers change,

alliances grow and crumble into ruins.

The steed stops upon the princess's destination,

the lone place in the kingdom where she can find

peace, where the chattering of peasants can no

longer disturb her daydreams, where she and her

court can enact royal business, where the swing

of her gavel rings loud and clear, where she can

study in peace, where she can play, where her

throne lies, two abandoned sisters sitting near.

It is here that the princess finds her solace; it is

here that the princess erases from her memory.