By Sharada Shyam Sundar
Apathy,
all what she felt,
as another bone broke.
Within a now ragged dress,
her skin torn,
through friction-worn
shoes.
Once,
decades ago,
she'd screamed,
screamed in pain,
cried for someone,
anyone,
to reach.
But the years weren't kind,
they'd broken her,
and broken some more.
All that was left,
the shell of a girl.
A fool,
who'd danced for love,
for joy.
What she was now,
a broken marionette,
dangled by strings.
She spun once more,
and felt in her porcelain body,
this was the last time
the curse would act.
One last time,
her eyes flitted across the stage,
to where her phantom audience sat.
One last time,
she'd feel something.
Regret.
When she was at her prime,
her audience meagre,
not that she'd ever minded.
But now?
Not a soul.
A pity,
she despised the truth,
denied it, even,
the curse,
it had brought out the best.
In every shattering bone,
of her dead weight cage,
in every bit of her broken wings,
she could feel it.
The Fall of the Swan,
was far more beautiful,
than her rise to glory.