The Winter of Her Heart

She was always essentially evil with

Her long, straight raven hair,

Her eyes as black as a midden, and

Her cheeks, so smooth and fair,

Her lips were ripe with the juice of love

Though she had no love to give,

But coloured them with a hint of blood

From her last aperitif.

 

She lived in an ice-bound castle, pitched

Next to a frozen lake,

Under a towering mountainside

As white as her wedding cake,

The clouds that hung on the mountain top

Were dark and as foul as sin,

And every day was a shade of grey

Where the sun could never get in.

 

She wandered the dark and gloomy halls

In a fur, but shivered her bones,

Her footsteps echoing off the walls

Her shadow cast on the stones,

The braziers on the passage wall

Would light her way to a room,

The room where a magic mirror hung

Reflected her in the gloom.

 

The hearth held a blazing yew tree log

That never seemed to go out,

Apart from a sneaking graveyard dog

There was nobody else about,

She’d stand in front of the mirror there

And look at her hard, cold face,

Say, ‘Mirror, when will you let me be,

I need to get out of this place!’

 

The face in the mirror grimly smiled

With a look of evil intent,

‘Why don’t you visit the dungeons, dear,

You know you need to repent.’

She tossed her head at the steely gaze

As her conscience peered on back,

‘I only did what I had to do

To replenish the blood I lack.’

 

The woman back in the mirror snarled

And she grew long pointed fangs,

Her brow had darkened, her eyes were fierce

‘We reflect our rights and wrongs.

The darkness deep in your cold, cold heart

Has entrapped this place in ice,

Compared to what lies ahead of you,

This place is Paradise.’

 

The woman turned and began to sob

And she paced the flagstoned floor,

There wasn’t a hint of the word ‘Repent’

As she opened the passage door,

She ran down several flights of steps

To the dungeon underneath,

Then stood and glared through the rusted bars

At her husband, Gordon Reith.

 

But Gordon sat on the ice cold floor

His back to an icy wall,

The frost had set on his face and hands

He wasn’t moving at all,

The puncture marks on his neck were red

With the last of his lifeblood flows,

She’d screamed the moment she’d found him dead

And ripped and torn at her clothes.

 

And that was the day the blizzard came

To freeze the lake in the night,

Covered the castle and mountain top

In an endless coat of white,

The mirror showed her an evil face

In place of the one she had,

‘You’ll not be drinking his blood again,

The blood of a corpse is bad!’

 

She opened the lock of the dungeon door

And she walked right into the cage,

Shook his body and gouged his face

In a wild, impotent rage,

The door had creaked as she turned her back

And it slammed and locked for good,

As the mirror fell from the wall above

And shattered where she’d stood.

 

A castle sits in a valley green

And beside a wide blue lake,

With mountains towering up above

To a sky where the sun’s awake,

You wouldn’t know that there once was snow

And I don’t know if you should,

But down in the dungeon lies a man

And the woman who drank his blood.

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Ahena MK]

The clouds that hung on the mountain top
Were dark and as foul as sin,
And every day was a shade of grey
Where the sun could never get in.

She opened the lock of the dungeon door
And she walked right into the cage,
Shook his body and gouged his face
In a wild, impotent rage,
The door had creaked as she turned her back
And it slammed and locked for good,
As the mirror fell from the wall above
And shattered where she’d stood..................... the lines that caught my eyes

wonderfully composed :)
ahena

[TPK Stories]

Another gruesome tale ... my favorite ...

[Brittany Zedalis]

A truly interesting tale. Well done!

[Daniel Sala]

A great tale, a fun grim fairytale!

[Draven]

A terrific work of art! You always display such great penmanship.

[Daisie Vergara (Dhaye)]

Nice narrative, Sir. Could be taken as metaphors or just the tale.
I love it.

[Mark]

An interesting metaphor: we all erect our own prisons by the choices we've made,
until one day we look up and realize that the blessing of choice is no longer ours
to exercise. This truism, alas, does not apply to vampires alone...

[Marie]

This sounds like the legend of the ice queen and one of the first vampires (I dn't remember her name, but she used fresh blood to keep herself young.)

[Arrinae]

I really like the feel I get from this one. It honestly reminded me of many different fairy tales blended into one and from the villain's point of view, which is often never seen. Well done! Thank you for sharing this with me.