She walks, she floats, so light on foot,
Among the trees and flowers,
Stopping every now and then
To sit and pass the hours.

And leisurely, without a care,
She comes across a gate,
Rusted shut from lack of wear.
The hour is getting late.

The sun's now setting in the west,
And so, she hesitates,
But curiosity gets her best;
This path becomes her fate.

Across the threshold she does step,
Into a frozen time,
And there, just slightly to her left,
There grows a twisted vine.

Upon this vine there blooms a flow'r,
So perfect and so red,
Yet tainted with a deadly pow'r,
Whose touch results in death.

She walks unto the poison rose,
As in a trance so deep,
A thorn, a prick, her frozen pose–
And never ending sleep.

back to my poetry

This was written about a character in Shakespeare's play, Macbeth. If you've read it, you'll know who this poem represents.