These Times

All the nights in shining armor have turned to rust, turned to dust, beneath the crumbled sidewalks we stumble upon. The tin man too has cracked, somewhere between lost dreams and reality. The princes have all died, as naïve princesses still lie in wait, facing the sun each morning, no longer as hope, but as a ball of Satan’s fire, burning through their porcelain skin. And the world turns slowly, a little closer to the sun with each revolution, as we, one by one, crack, turn to rust, turn to dust, burn out and die, our deaths in these times, now just another day simply devoid of meaning.