Upon a time there were a thousand books of old.
Tales of fairies, little elves,
courageous deeds and magic spells.
Each tale a woven world of wonder,
each page was laced with gold.
A thousand writers each would tell
a different story to weave this spell.
With a puff of smoke and a swirl of mist,
a lock of hair will seal this tryst.
But now the nights are silent;
and the land is dark and cold.
No swish of dragon's wings to hear,
no fairy kings of old.
Now the books tell of guns,
of wars, Martians and burning suns.
There was a time when pages were gold,
filled with spidery writing mysteries behold.
Since then the books have lost their wonder,
the golden pages were torn asunder.
The tales they wrote were twisted and moulded,
Snipped and stripped, torn and folded.
Until this gathering, no longer a tryst
turned the tales into something like this...
Cinderella grew old and died,
the witch forgot her spell.
Sleeping Beauty went mouldy inside,
and Rapunzel is rotting in Hell.
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