The Real Snow-White

The Real Snow White

The fair and fickle beauty
grasps the broom,
her hands grimy and worn.
She straightens her apron,
runs a hand through her ebony hair.
She traces a path through the dust on the floor.
Muttering to herself, she dusts the mantelpiece,
silently slides into a chair.
Her feelings matter little here,
she is nothing more than the maid.
She bits her blood red lip,
sighs to herself, wonders
if this life is better than the one she gave up.
Tears slip from her eyelids,
run down her snowy white cheeks,
stain her gown.
She closes her eyes against the pain.
This prison of a cottage
she must now call home.
It is more so than the silent, stony castle
where no one loved her.
Yet she struggles with her conscience,
wishing to be elsewhere.
The knock startles her.
She pulls back the door,
takes in the sight of the old hag,
mistakes her for a friend.
She confesses her problems,
worries, fears,
and the old woman offers an escape.
She grasps the apple,
her downfall.
Her ebony hair fans around
her ivory face,
her slim body crumpling to the floor,
apple clutched in hand.
And her blood-red lips move no longer.