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Wednesday, 20 April 2011


What spell is cast around these slumb'ring walls
That the swishing snip of thicket can't break?
The bravest hearts are skewered on its thorns.
None so fortuitous to reach its doors...
Centurion Autumn gathers dead leaves,
Brings not Spring's life-kiss or Winter's release.

And who has come to wake the maiden fair?
Punished by the prick of a sharp needle,
So like the lethal point of the rose stalk.
The deceptive faerie nature spared, whilst;
Rubbled bodies tangle in its brambles
And Aurora's lips grow ever colder--

© Florence Challender 2011