Snow White

Beneath the glass she sleeps, frozen in silence for all of her eternity. No maggot has found the heart to eat away at her flesh, soft and pale in the moonlight, but beneath the lids of her eyes, the sockets are empty. Their jewels have been stolen away by some sprite.
As though cut into her face, her mouth is swolen and red. Upon these lips that never healed, there seems to be a word, perched precariously and never quite esscaping from the tongue. Just a whisper of an unsaid word, loud in its own silence.
Lush, dark strands of oily hair fall, mussed, accross her face and bare shoulders, black as ivory is white. She wears a peasant's dress, and the ring of royalty. Not time darse wilt her flower crown, or the roses clasped to her breast.
While locked in perpetual spring, around her casket the north wind blows. He carries drifts of whitest snow, fair as she who sleeps. But will not let them rest upon the glass, for the warmth of her heart still resides there, and will for all of her eternity.
She awaits the kiss of her true lover. She waits in vain. Because love's not that simple, and fairy-tales aren't real.