Death of a Fairytale
The witch adds each morsel of magic, spice to her frothy brew.
Her wailing drifts, fog across the moon,
each fairytale severed and torn.
With tears, overwhelmed with remorse, she tosses each penned page in.
She cut out all the well-worn fairytales (happy dance of glee).
Bluebeard’s room stuffed full of dead wives,
no longer can their wild cries warn us.
She whispers, “Hansel and Gretel will no longer come to play”.
The children around the caldron gather, drawn by fear and awe;
bound by the vow of silent watchers.
They cannot stop this ignoble act.
We, the watchers, watch and weep; promising all the stories to keep.
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