The flop side of a fairytale,
Sometimes is empty. There is no back garden of weeds,
To some lives. Its like the moon without craters.
What you see in the belly and the face
Are sometimes truer than the naked visual.
In a world that venerates dark sides,
What can story book lives do but be at the very periphery.
With credence or faith they live,
In a world of endorphins and dopamine.
Inside a cocoon that no one knows exists,
Like the walls of a suburban home,
And the caterpillars that are actually no creepy crawlers,
Only beautiful creatures that crawl in,
And crawl out, of bed together,
And crawl on each other in-between,
Life forms prettier than,
Those flower-hopping show-offs
With gossamer wings.