by Nick Gisburne
The curse is not a mark, it is a map.
Thought faint at first, it darkens as it grows.
A sprawling sweep of lines begin to wrap
And circle every blemish they expose.
Invaded, stained, the shiver of its touch
Drives deeper than her fear can comprehend.
She weeps, but as the cold becomes too much
Her body feels the violation’s end.
Two mirrors, one behind her, one before,
Reveal the bleak cartography of fate:
A labyrinth, without an outer door,
And at its heart a name, above a date.
The name is hers. The date foreshadows doom.
The map depicts the pathways to her tomb.
