They lived in a fairy tale,
too far away for us to find.

A Pink Palace built
upon cracked cinder blocks;
For a hundred years, under
painted palm trees of peeling wood.

White roses flaring among thorns
along the splintered frame
of the only doorway for miles.

They lived briefly like this,
in the month of roses,
drowning in the June air of humidity;
the sun playing hide-and-seek
behind green foliage
tied together with brown string
as if making a blanket
to hide them in stained-glass shadows.

A car showing dents of recent sword fights
of battles long ago lost to laughter,
with patches of rust staining its white coat.

They rode away from seven generations of seeing eyes
without looking back,
because they live in a fairy tale
too faraway for us to find,
if we ever had in fact tried to look,
maybe we imagined that part of the story.