She sat on the greenest of hills,
     Surrounded by a beautiful town,
And a wonderful array of mills.
       The gem of a kingdom... cursed by fate,
She would be brought down.
  On a moonlit night, hours late.
       The sky turned blood red.
           Oh woe, oh no!
               The beloved king, he was dead.
        He, the soul of the land, without him,
          She would lose her glow.
    And so it was, she met her end, how grim!

    Dark clouds did gather,
          The sun shone no more,
                 Life did no longer matter.
      The hills became black,
  The mills burned, turned to soot on the floor.
     No one ever came back.

                                                               But she,
                                                     she stills sits,
                                             The palace of he,
                  Their king. Alone with'a crow,
       Cold, Death's voice... cawing emits.

Left to right, right to left,

the waltz of white, white snow,

                      as it falls, performing

a show, ending in theft:

              the theft of my soul. Snows

gentle kiss, covering,

          in a blanket all. Bereft

of care, the happy snow.

             Wonderland remaining.