Twilight shadows the nursery,
darkness creeps across the room.
The fire licking at the grate
steals lurid glances at her,
frozen en pointe, neck curved
just so, lashes drawn fine
against the swell of cheek,
and still, all still by the spark
of the steadfast soldier's dusty gaze,
his rigid stance, gunmetal posture
at odds with longing for her eyes
to open once, just once
to see his attention,
guarding her cold countenance,
the ice of her silence delicate
and empty as her hollow fragility,
painted to the thin pink twist
of her smile, arch-seraphic.
Does her glass heart move at all?
Tin melts. He will fall
in love, helpless, hapless
bravery will fall into the flame,
the fire will claim all of him,
and she alone, unmoved.
- Add a