Where fairytales go to die

In the dim glow of youthful dreams,

where fairytales spun their silken threads,

I reached out with hands stretched wide,

cradling an illusion of eternal love.

My heart was an open book,

pages brimming with the ink of hope,

yet the story was a dark descent,

tainted by the corrosive touch of betrayal.

The lover, a ghost of desire,

moved through my life with a hollow grace,

his touch a wraith-like whisper,

more shadows than substance.

Infidelity wove its venomous strands,

a web of lies and manipulation,

ensnaring the delicate wings

of a butterfly that was meant to be our family.

As the wings were crushed beneath

the weight of deceit and false promises,

the rot began its insidious march

through the corridors of my soul.

My spirit, once vibrant, became a decaying relic,

a monument to broken dreams and shattered trust.

When the veil of illusion was torn asunder,

I felt the blood drain from my face,

a crimson testament to the collapse

of a fairytale turned nightmare.

The echo of shattered hope reverberates,

a mournful dirge in the empty spaces

where love was promised but never truly lived.