The Girl who wanted to be the Pauper

Bubbles
intangible egos
rise up, as I drown further into
into my tryst with destiny.

Wings
they flutter
invincibly into the waters
escaping judgments that surround.

Rock
hits the head
thoughts clatter and dash against it
thudding into a orgasmic symphony

Blood
rushes from membranes to the sea-floor
I feel happy and at peace,
Another Dead poet writes a story,
that is seldom remembered,but often rehearsed.

(The stage curtains bow down,
we come to the end of a beginning
let this poet die and maybe the next time,
She would become the pauper with the prince blood.)