Mirror mirror on the wall, hanging there so silently, can you see me here at all, or do you stand in awe of me?
See my skin as white as snow, see my smile as sharp as thorn, behind my lips so rosy red, a beauty grown, but never born.
My people love me, as they might, they laud my beauty and my grace, adore my hair as black as night, and see in me my mother’s face.
Mothers ash is buried deep, beneath the sacred Rowan tree, but should I cry beneath its shade, I hear her voice still speak to me.
Blood red tears soak through the ground, nourishing the thirsty earth, and whispering the leaves take voice, echoes of her cruel mirth.
Stepmother, fear me as you should, for though you may have fathers ring, tis I who owns his beating heart…in me, the conscience of the king.
Huntsman with your sharpened knife, you track me for the queen so good, a single kiss and you are mine, amazed amidst the darkened wood.
The beating heart, unlike my own, ensconced within a box of gold, and carried to stepmother dear, a tragic tale will soon be told.
By animals in forest deep, my body torn too much to save, the heart the only evidence, to lay beside my mother’s grave.
From kitchen knave to scullery maid, soon all in mourning deep will be, whilst I move through them whisper soft, feeding on the tragedy.
And then, replete, I’ll slip away, down to the caverns dark and deep, far from the biting of the sun, where spirits howl and duergar creep.
There among the little men, I’ll sleep until I thirst again, then waken, smiling in my bliss, to share again my blood red kiss.