Faerie was Not as they Told Her

She Sleeps in the sound of a waxy whiteness,
where folds of muslin float against a window, a jar.
The paleness of her skin deceives the life that lives her;
it sleeps too,
for her chest hardly moves,
with the shadow breath and sparrow's heart that live her bones
and skin beneath a timeless veil of silence.
Silver Faerie thread,
through needle head,
a curse befalls her as she floats between worlds awake, asleep.
Lids close over staring eyes that cannot see what is to come,
for if they did,
they might blink, and see a chance to run;
slip across to meet the breeze,
cool around the edges.
Eyes quickening as the light lifts the window pane.
Body shivering,
Heart quivering,
through air, a feather gown of under garments.
Inside a last gasp, as she sits on the edge,
and falls back instead,
into the down of a fateful bed.