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 in each page.
She ripped the well-worn fairytales.
Bluebeard’s room
stuffed full of dead wives,
their wild cries no longer 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 as silent watchers.
They cannot stop this ignoble act.
We, the watchers, watch and weep;
promising all the stories to keep.
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