The rose in the west wing continues to wither,
As the fearsome beast paces in his pen,
Reciting silent soliloquies that if you heard would make you quiver,
Until a stranded stranger had the gall to show up in his garden.

The beast wouldn't know love if it looked him in the eye,
Silently soliciting his mercy.
The dainty damsel bit her lip, trying not to cry,
As the beast callously confined her to his chambers- scornfully snubbing her plea.

His sophisticated senorita seemed strange but somehow special,
A most peculiar mademoiselle,
She was always aloof and annoyingly sentimental,
But what she really wanted was a change- and that, the beast understood on so many different levels.

His library had once been his safe haven- and now it was theirs,
Belle brought out books that helped the beast understand her.
He revelled in her mirth as he played the part of a gentleman meddling with Verona's affairs,
Until he realised he'd gone too deep into character.

"I couldn't love a beast", she murmured regretfully,
Her eyes filled with sorrow.
A greater man would have released her, and watched her leave gloomily,
But he still couldn't let her go.

The memories of the curse came flooding back,
As he recalled the belligerent boy begging on his knees.
The callous old crone was poised for attack,
She paid no heed to his pleas.

He'd known she wouldn't love him, her reasons weren't bizarre,
He'd brought it on himself, for hoping she'd save his soul.
He longed to regain the days he'd once been a star,
Now collapsed in on himself, until all that was left was a black hole.

Belle didn't ask to leave, to his relief,
And he couldn't help but wonder
If that should give him hope or give him grief,
As he continued to savour all the fantasies his brain could conjure.

"What are we?" he asked one day, and at once he knew it was a blunder.
"I don't like labels," she mumbled awkwardly and left the dinner table.
He realised, even sitting in the same room, they'd been worlds asunder,
And his fantasies held about as much truth as his library's fables.

It was torture to look her in the eye- and pretend everything was still the same.
Her bittersweet smile matched his sombre eyes that displayed both his love and his loss.
She'd made him a better man- but it had caused him so much pain,
It would destroy him to imprison her longer, for she was his albatross.

The rose in the west wing continues to wither,
As the heartbroken beast paces in his pen,
Reciting silent soliloquies grieving for his lover,
Until she was nothing more than a stranger leaving his garden.

.    .    .