Tip of a needle glistening in a candle's glow,
Thread never-ending spooled around a wooden hold;
It lifts and it loops as she swirls it in and through,
It traipses and curtsies in its midnight dance for two;

Firm thread on mellow cloth, a winter's day is brought to life;
Her musings faraway while her fingers kept in sight.

Then.

With a suddeness of lightning, crimson ink bleeds through the snow;
Consuming all the land with glee, a bitter tale unfolds.

The needle drops, her hand grows limp, her face is drained of colour;
She falls upon the marbled floor, into a haunting slumber.