All falls silent and still as she perches on her throne;
the world falls asleep under the diligent gaze of her pale, white eyes.
Her crimson lips part in the gentlest of sighs.

She entertains a fleeting wish for companionship--
for someone with which to banter away the cold, quiet nights.
Her pale, snow-hued skin is freezing without the contact of another.

So many eternities have passed since she last knew conversation,
she has long since forgotten how to speak.
Collected, quiet breaths are all that fall from her lips now.

Her hands fold in her lap, her slender fingers intertwining in ennui.
Her jeweled feet take to tapping the floor listlessly;
it's hardly regal, but she struggles to care.

The endless river of her midnight hair cascades over her shoulder.
It is reminiscent of the apparent length of the night,
which begins to feel eternal: an isolated afterlife of solitary confinement.