Face as pale as snow, hair like ebony, and lips red;
Red as the blood pricked from the dainty finger which bled
From the waters of a treacherous womb, the fairest one of all was born
To compassionate father, the King, and wicked *****, the Queen; forlorn
By the news from mystic mirrors vile with dark knowledge, the fairest one of all
She would be the one to rule them all beneath a gentle rule; herald of the Queen’s fall.

Though the insidious murmurs of her Mirror, upset the Queen, she did not remain
“Forlorn” for long. No, she used the time to gather magics, beneath the sane
Façade and the façade of tears when it became known the King had died
Her daughter, grown to ten and four years, to be moved off of her head
Then the Queen, the Queen alone, would have beauty and power.
To her throne room, did the Queen invite a Huntsman upon the hour
In which was meant to mourn the good man’s loss
The soul of the King immortalised in bronze wherein sickly moss
Did grow, a dour shawl that did crawl around his eyes
Much like his mistress who for fourteen years did feed him arsenic and lies.

“Take her heart so I may feast upon it; proof of her death,” did instruct the Queen
Unto her henchman, the Huntsman, she did instruct and he left. The sheen
Of determination emanated from him, illuminating his understanding that would turn.
Into the forest, he did chase the Princess until he cornered her; looming over her,
Her beauty sing sweet sorrow upon whimpering lips and a charismatic curse
Was laid upon the huntsman’s eyes
And from that, he could take no lives
So, he felled a boar and fed the heart to the Queen.
But the flesh upon her tongue, it did not taste it ought to mean.

The Princess fled further into the forest and happened upon a melancholic hut
That housed seven dwarves, wary folk at first but
Upon hearing the Princess’ begging, they let her stay and for them,
She cleaned their abode and once cleaned, the Huntsman’s deception came clean also
And so, the Queen grew vengeful and spurned a deep spell to **** her daughter, so
She travelled into the forest and disguised herself with the clothes of hags
A poor, poor hag in need of money – money for an apple red as blood
The Princess, fooled and compassionate, took from a hand with rancid skin that sags.

A single, crisp bite was all it took for the Princess with lips of blood and face of snow
To perish, from her hand the poisoned apple withered and in a glass box the dwarves laid
Her to rest, her final rest, and from her porcelain hand the apple tumbled,
And with that echoic fall, the Queen rose once more: beauty, fame, power: she has it all.

And for the existence of such a miraculous corpse to prove true, rumour became myth
And myth inspired Prince to go out and search for the truth clouded in mist
Within a deep, damp forest run foul with monstrous foliage, the Prince found her
He found her with the one of ivory face and scarlet lips; hair in inky curls
From her glass casket, he removed the lid and his decency; assailed by
The perfume of ever youthful flowers, he leaned down next to her and with a gentle lie
He told himself she was asleep. That’s all she was: a peaceful, deathly sleep;
And upon those perk, scarlet lips, he gave her a kiss that was deep.

Tongue within her cold, rotting mouth.
He kissed her and he kissed her thorough, hoping his warm breath would breathe life
Into this long-dead corpse; perfect as though blood remained in motion in her vein
But from her glass coffin, the Princess did not stir so the Prince’s ghastly act was in vain
With the back of his hand, he smeared her memory and the myth remained myth.

The poor Princess was laid to her rest, her final rest, in a glass coffin; a perfect corpse
A corpse that did not wither;
A corpse with blood red lips, hair of ebony, and skin snow white.