The Spindle of Truth pierces to where soul and spirit meet.
Thus the rude awakening brings the sleep of living death.
The mocking laughter of those who harmed me
Echoes round the turrets of my guarded heart
What evil did this child do to reap this curse upon my adult years?
The blood from my wounds stains my clothes right through to my soul.
When will my Prince come?
I lie comatose, aware but not responsive.
In catatonic repose I hear but cannot answer.
My grief overwhelms me.
I am buried beneath the grief of those I love.
They sleep, too.
Sleeping the sleep of fearing to do wrong they do nothing
Leaving me alone upon my solitary bier.
Every moment feels like a hundred years.
When will my Prince come?
I dare not trust - I grow thorns around my heart
Long and dagger sharp.
I thought to keep pain at bay but my defenses keep it in.
Is there one who dares to risk, who will wake me with a kiss?
When will my Prince come?
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© Helen McNeil, all rights reserved. This poem may not be reproduced,
translated or copied in any medium, including books, CDs and on the Internet,
without written permission of the author.
This script may be performed free of charge, on the condition that copies are
not sold for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged. In exchange
for free performance, the author would appreciate being notified of when and
for what purpose the poem is used. She may be contacted at: soul.communication@outlook.com