The Queen of Bleached Roses

I step into the golden shadows,
Shuffle over this dusty wooden floor,
And catch from the corner of my eye,
A sight of sore remembrance;

There, in that oval-ed mirror,
There is a maiden with her hair aside.

Her eyes are darkened,
Ebony streaks bleed from her bones,
Lips paler than the most tired bleached rose.

Her breath shaking from the winter's bite,
Her skin prickled with anticipation,

I am naught but a husk,
Barely standing from fatigue,

How strange and dead I do appear,
In these golden shadows.