It wanders from room to room
Confined like a dog on a chain
Or a ship anchored to the shore
It hasn’t been male or female
In centuries. The mirror’s reflection
Magic has ceased working
Calls for attention, to descendants
Who weren’t taught its name,
All fail, echoes in an endless hall
Countless cups and chairs have moved
Switching places without human touch
Whispers at night are nothing but the wind
It sits in its old room after dark
Watching its great-great granddaughter
As her chest rises and falls under the sheets
Suddenly, she shoots up, her eyes
Wide, pupils huge as they adjust to the blackness
And it yearns to speak when she whimpers
“Is someone there?”
Amanda Faye is a writer, life-long reader, and aspiring librarian from New Hampshire. Her work has appeared in Fickle Muses and will appear in the Summer 2017 issue of Illumen.
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