The Sleeper

She fears
- s l e e p -
As if it is a growing, living thing:
a twisting tide, a shadowed snare, waiting,
leaves curled in the darkness,
roots clawing, craving every word that pooled
under the fragile skin of her fingertips,
rippling under feet that ever strayed to faerie paths.

When her lashes flutter-
Moths to flame-

When her veins run with ink,

When her hands, black gloved,
are welling, flowing,
into a sea of paper-white,

When the witching hour casts its spell over the girl,
the girl and the winding petals of pearl,
are once more ribbon-caged love letters,
bound too tightly,

Once more a sleeping beauty
as her pale castle
goes to black.

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