Wearing a crown made of bone shards, the bearded figure harks,

Who goes there? Creeping there in the shadows of his own heart,

Twisted tendrils spread the rumours that he follows, deep in the hollows,

Instinctively in pursuit like a bloodhound, with only the conspicuousness that irony borrows,

Wet ears pricked, squinting eyes dart from side to side, there’s nowhere to hide,

Cloaked to bite back the cold, he suspects it’s the sound itself that’s lied,

The spark of a twinkle or the twinkle of a spark, surely not so in this dark?

If only he could see his own countenance, then surely he’d know there’s nothing to ask,

A quick thought of the royal mirror hung blindly on the bedroom wall – not so small,

Were it here he’d use it to suck the very space into itself – this world and all,

Aha! There’s something of it again, like its mimicking him with smug disdain,

It shouldn’t be here, does it not understand alone? This love’s purpose is vain,

A fatigued mist descends now as he holds his breath, what could be next?

Stillness tugs his vanishing bowels, time now making him ever perplexed,

A second quick thought, this time of the castle’s vast dungeon – yes something,

Whatever is ferreted from here could be dragged there, bloody and wondering,

The moment now heavy his nerves stilled, his sickle ready and ill,

The sound alive and gruesome, with one foul swoop the bearded man becomes the kill…


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