She slumps in her room,
Solitude only a vague idea in her mind,
Like something she might have had
For breakfast a week ago,
Rather than a state of existence
She has endured for
More days than she can count.
Indurated, she can only stare ’round her,
Small titters escaping her lips
That might indicate her state of sanity,
But are more than likely
Just noises so she can be sure
Her ears still work correctly.
They have given her a spinning wheel
In the hopes that her slip-shod genius
Might produce tangible magic,
Gold out of straw.
They gave her three days,
Three years,
Three lifetimes,
Or maybe just one night;
She gave up counting
Before they shut the door.
A litany of names trip from her tongue,
More names than she can ever remember,
More names than she can ever get through,
Every name never written
And it is never the right one,
It will never be the right one,
But that’s all right
Because they’ve all forgotten her anyway.
There is only her,
In an empty room
With a spinning wheel made of nightmares
That will never create gold
And a web of names that will never be hers.