A poet's feather carries ink plated in blood.Too many victims the poets have killed with the condemning fates they have blanketed with elegant words, tricks of warmth and happy endings.
What if none of these victims wanted this ending?
Convicting ink that bleeds with deceit as words imprison one with an ending they believed to be heavenly, but truly is an illusion ━━ when the mask is tossed and they realise they are stuck in a vain destiny, with no option but to hide behind their cloaks to preserve pretences of good, and to hope for invisibility against the evil that lingers within them.
What if they fell in love with the idea of happy ever after, but once reached the ending ━━ fell out of love?
It would not have mattered ━━ their stories already tattooed across paper, bound in leather books left to wear away, sentenced to forever rest in libraries but condemned to never reverse. It would not have mattered ━━ for if they tried to show their temper over the matter, they would have been recognised not to be pure good; evil, instead.
Good to be truly evil; masterpieces of tragedy ━━ if only the poets and their feather pens would allow for it to happen.
And so, for two-hundred years with the good undefeated and continued happy ever after's being composed, there were too many cloaks to count, too many masks of contentment to unveil, and too many hiding their dislike of their life after happy ever after.
