The heels click on the castle floor,

but her mind’s still on her kill.

That swoosh of the arrow

t’wards a dying heart,

to cease the faint still beat.

The glorious drag of sword from sheath,

its glint, when it took them seven,

the cries, the pleas, the yells she heard,

and the sweet, sour tang of hurt.

There it lies; a midnight red,

all lush with its poisonous reek,

with the heart, he brought and his own one,

three bruised and priceless things.

She saunters up to the corner

and lets her cloak come undone and fall.

Snow-like face and a ghostly laugh,

‘Mirror, mirror on the wall.’

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