She was a Belle,

When he fell,

In an eternal amour of dwell.

An imaginary dwell,

Where Belle and him, 

lived well.

She does not know how to tell,

Why he pell-mell,

When everything went well.

Is it the spell,

The Wicked Witch sells,

For a magical shell?

He promised a ring of opal,

A bouquet of pretty bluebells,

But he dispels.

She knows not what caused him an impel,

To leave her in hell,

She never wanted to indwell,

As a bride that was jilted,

Who lived in the dry memories,

Of her long-lost amour.

_

Born on October 27 2003, in Kerala, India, Aishwarya N Murali completed her school education in Bangalore. She writes quotes, poems, anecdotes and fictional stories. Singing, sketching and painting are her other hobbies. Kindly find her artworks and writings on Instagram at @aish__arts and @aish__quotes