Of lovers and sinners did the poets wrote,
Of glorious deeds and valour did the bards spoke,
But what of the chunks of plinth reduced to dust upon centuries of patient waiting?
Did love’s labour loose?
Did the fair maiden come to the pauper?
Did the toad turn into Prince Charming?
Or was yet another cinder girl lost to the ever deepening woods?
Maybe the bards know,
They write about it.
Or only the forsaken lovers,
Or maybe everyone.
We see them everywhere, carved into stone.
Or maybe no one does,
Do they see those forsaken lovers turned to stone?