sleeping beauty

becoming:

'twas the prince, not queen,

had wrong intent, wrapped with care-

rest here, you'll be safe

sleeping:

too soon my slumber,

shaken with thrusts, makes itself

too long and too deep

dreaming:

the morning after

"i am just cleaning my gun"

creeps into my grog

sleep walking:

remorse so large to

need escape is what i heard,

not the ugly threat

the kiss:

i go on, years pass

until my story fills their

eyes and i then see

awake:

i forgive myself-

trust and knowing the should be

are not soul stealers

finally:

and you, mister prince-

how many? is your gun loud

enough to hush ghosts?