4 min read
The empress is made of fairy-dust—
Bleeding pure gold.
Sleeping soundly in her ivy-woven tower.
Her young face masked with bright, blossoming flowers
Guarded by snow-white swans, swimming through—
A maze of lily pads.
Her highness’s name is etched in the chambers of her fortress—
Enclosed in tightly bound scripts.
Her voice tangled in swift maneuver of wind.
Scored in between the lines of musical scrolls.
Her spirit caught in silk-threaded spider webs.
Painted in the details of high-hung tapestries.
Her wicked dream-catcher lures you—
Drawing you into her wicked spell
Of potions and brews.
A bitter smell of chives assaults your senses.
Wax still drips from burned out-candles.
Blood is splattered on the fabric of her throne.
The shrill of cicadas pierces the night.
Shards of a diamond chandelier dispersed on the stone floor—
Slicing the heels of your feet.
Still, you find yourself in a stargaze—
With a fixation on rosemary and sage.
A slave to sight and sound.
Her haunting image embedded in your brain—
Like a needlepoint pattern stitched into a knit.
Forever tattooed in the many layers of your skin.
The empress is hard to escape—
Seen in your devilish dreams.
Ticking in the minute-hand of your internal clock.