She called for them to wait, but no one ever listens
(hears) Cinderella (cinders, oh blackened ashes fall and fall and fall)
from milky faces and renaissance costumes where

she hides (she hides) in her

violins sketch out the final chords of her
pantomime (leering masks of jealously seek what
never was, never was)
a million and one (and one) are waiting for the stasis
and the moment she, her, it
clings and rips her

caustic tears erode her porcelain poppy ruby lips and
she cannot kiss.