Snow White

It’s getting late
Ice cold hands
I awake to find myself not myself
I have smooth white arms and sleep in a bed of snowy silk
Suddenly dressed in swaths of floating fabric I descend down a glittering glass staircase
A feast has been prepared for me and faceless ones toast to some elusive achievement
I am disheartened though I know not why

It’s getting late
A kissing of powdery cheeks and I whisper off to bed
Early hours I awake, wondering who I am only to find a man, with his back turned to me
Fresh scars upon his skin, staining my clean world red
A hush. He turns towards me
His eyes never reach me
Yanked back to true wakefulness by a spot of harsh sunlight upon my cheeks and an echo of some fine fairy harmony tickling my ears