by Ryan Stone
Ten small moons
blank as bone,
not bright enough
to guide her home.
Five above, and
five below
in the land of Fae,
where cold winds blow.
A coffin, glass,
her beauty case;
asleep at last,
the maiden, chaste.
A mirror's truth
first planted seed,
from poison springs
doom's apple tree.
Cloaked in night
her hunter lies;
a queen deceived
by fourteen eyes.
Grim tales weave
through bloody looms.
In royal breast
a thawed rose blooms.