Fairy tales are made along the crowded roads, busy alleys, on the library staircase, in between rush hours, over the footpath, around the parks, sometimes it blossoms in silence, under the lamppost, in the quiet of the dusk, interspersed in calm and stir of the night.
Fairy tales are weaved as time whiles away, oblivious to the fact that the sand in the hourglass might run out right away.
With lips locked, their fairy tale faded away, hushed in the mist of a mild winter day.
In the warm embrace of arms, the essence dissolved, until what was left of them was but a lightless lantern, smell of fire still alive, glowworms swimming over the mire.
Dreamy tales have real endings…
Maybe this is it, for real
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1 comment:
it ends when u want it to end :)
do i need 2 say brilliant post? :)
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