There is only chapter one.

It is spun with the gold threads

Of her mind, delicate spider’s silk,

Pretty and intricate,

A plot waiting to unfold.

And then it ends as suddenly as it started:

A cliffhanger—suspense—

The princess escapes

(she’s not yet met her prince,

but the girl, the writer, was a hopeless romantic;

you know it’ll happen in chapter two or three.)

Perfect, it is, perfect in its darling naïveté,

An unfinished life,

Yet they’ve got no more of their story to tell:

That died along with her.