The end was near,
and she could tell by the way the curtains swayed,
although there was no wind,
and how the ink spilled,
although the table did not tilt,
and how the embers would not die,
although the fire had faded away.
She could tell by how the clock made not a sound,
although the hands continued to tick dreadfully slow,
droning on and on noiselessly,
and when the hour struck
the bells stirred but remained deathly silent.
There was no laughter, no smiles in the palace,
only nervous chuckles and brief glances,
but no one told her why.
Her eyes rarely left the clock as it droned on,
her hands folded prettily in her lap,
dress billowed out at her feet but even the fabric appeared
Her fingers would occasionally stroke
unkempt blonde hair,
for why bother with a brush?
The hour was near,
and though they told her not
something deep inside of her knew.
Her pricked conscience cradled her heart with fear,
yet her face remained blank as she gathered her courage
and thrust it at her despair,
raised her chin,
and all the while her eyes refused to leave
that fateful, soundless clock.
This is my entry for Allie’s Thursday Poetry Challenge.