Her hair, a fan of gold around her head,
Her gentle breathing a soothing rhythm,
Cheeks pink, her rosebud mouth puckered to kiss,
Waiting for her prince.
One hundred years she’s lain there,
Miraculously protected from the ravages of time.
The castle hidden, overgrown with vegetation,
None have managed to overcome the obstacles.
He steps into the chamber,
Tired, bloody and muddy from his battle
With demons engaged to contain The Prize within.
She sleeps, this Beauty of folklore.
His for want of a kiss.
On bended knee, he gently presses his lips to hers.