painting the white roses red had become an obsession
by the time Alice crossed paths with her again
not a single a single creamy bud left in the kingdom
even the moon rust red.
though time is a blur in dreams this time Alice was through
with straightening her seams or being told to
when she already knew they were alright.
let it be night then. let the moon chide the clouds.
Alice will say no name out loud to perjure herself here
she will just disappear in the same blue gown a little altered
with a collar of pearls
thankful, on the riverbank again to have escaped all trials.
in that bent , the carnival mirrored world,
mary angela douglas 30 october 2020
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