If I hadn’t worn the slippers.
Went to the ball.
Worn the gown.

I may have never known cynical oppression.
Or French locks and Dainty teas.

Sure he is witty, handsome and sweet.
Slay dragons for me and comes home with the meat.

Yet I miss the smell of pine and rubber.
The mice of men that scrambled for crumbles at my table.

They listened to my musing rhymes.
They smiled.
They were easily charmed.

I should be called blessed.
Charming the kingdom with my smiles.

Yet I miss twirling barefooted on the pebbled pavements.
The smell of fresh linen.
And the soft simple feel of cotton and silence.

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