Mirror on the wall,
Fairest of them all,
Glittering shards of ice.
She stands before the dark,
Her hair is unbound,
The skies are once more alive.
Silence drowns out the sound of her sobs,
The quiet is her only home.
The darkness seeks to eclipse her,
While she stands by the rain-wet window.
My twin, her reflection,
The face in the shattered glass.
An apple, red as summer wine,
A single bite so stark.
The woman in her rises,
Terrible in beauteous form.
A single strand of ebony flutters,
Burnt by a candle incandescent.
The world stops for a song.
“Hark!” cries the huntsman,
His voice rising from the world below.
She shudders with grim horror
And goes to confront other absurdities.
The world snaps into place,
Her eyes glitter like pools of amber and gold.
Thunder roars in the distance,
Lightning flares on distant shores.
Her castle lies by the sea,
By a dream,
By the forest green.
It is and is not
That which it seems.
Not a soul in sight,
Not a soul in the light,
Her soles are wearing down to nothingness,
Her dress trails behind.
Scarred fate! Merciless destiny!
Her voice cries out for justice.
The soaring heights of melancholy
Churn within a maelstrom,
A sharp arrow shaft of agony.
The sudden quiet is disturbing, eerie.
The wailing cries of her heart are stilled,
The mirror is no more dark.
Sunshine once encased her soul,
Crystal and frost in coffin-like embrace,
Originate and end without pause.
She exists, yet tries too hard,
Immortality was never her want.
Everlasting eternity was always her right,
The end was never a road of thorns.
The fetid stench of hungry spite,
Rising strongly out of the night,
The first time the mirror is more than glass,
The first time it is not just a door.
She stumbles, pale and cold in silence,
Voice muted and inaudible,
Her pale arms reduced to mere limbs,
Her body reduced to nothing more than itself.
Husband? Lover? Father? Brother?
Her body quakes beneath the weight of forgotten feelings,
Her eyes swim with limpid tears.
Within human form, she changes,
No child, no woman, nothing no more.
Exuberance is tempered by experience,
Loss is protected by love,
Her heart shatters within its casket,
Her breath catches on a letter.
The fruit of her wishes is beautiful,
As beautiful as beauty should be.
It is poison. It is her child. It is her being, her everything.
It is the poison-child.
It is a memory of the one who used to be.