A thousand spindles
A hundred wheels
A dozen or so webs
An entire century of slow hearts
Tell me how does it feel…
to be so beautiful and significant
that you send your whole word
into mournful sleep?
Is your soul really so pure, so divine?
Is it attainable– could your legacy
be attained by all?
Or is it only the Briar Roses of the world
who have the luxury to be beautiful first
and all the niceties that follow far after?
if I were to be the way I am and look the way I do,
would my kindness, my gentle voice, my girlish laugh,
be my only saving graces?
Perhaps that is why it is far easier for some
to adorn themselves in the malice and darkness
they were branded with since birth
A thousand dreams
A hundred songs
A dozen or so wishes granted
A single kiss to assure the good deeds were worth it