.Seldeen Cimredopyh

A prick of the finger, a fairy tale told
to the youngest children by the voices, old.
Morals unsaid in the darkest of nights
when Sleeping Beauty woke up for a fight.

She'd been a druggie, a hippie, a fiend,
a wolf in sheep's skin, a martyr, a queen.
With bags under eyes the color of clear,
she stood up, fists raised, her heart ever so near.

She stuck a needle in her veins,
pulled the plug, down the drain.
She stuck a needle in her veins,
count to ten within the rain.

Sleeping Beauty, did she know
why the yard was filled with crows?
They wait for death, for needles, thin.
They wait for death, for needles, thin.

“Seldeen Cimredopyh,” she whispered to the air,
“seldeen cimredopyh.” But no one was there.
Black magic spells, her mind under the queen,
she screamed and she thrashed as the syringes gleamed.

Her veins, they popped and collapsed,
rubble in her skin, debris, trapped.
She'd danced, once upon a dream;
she'd danced, once upon a dream.

She stuck a needle in her veins,
pulled the plug, down the drain.
Her blood ran cold as her body shut down;
she drowned, she drowned in her golden crown.