Fairy Tale - Part 1

Raindrops on roses weren’t her thing. They were okay. But patchouli and pine Curry and cloves Burnt orange dusks fading to midnight blue slumber Alto strings and reeds weaving symphonic tapestries in minor keys Woolen ponchos and leather boots and prairie skirts sewn from bandanas line dried for the hundredth time to soft perfection These were a few of her favorite things. Depths of tone and texture Vast in richness Intriguing in complexity The labyrinth of wonder The land of the Prince. He sought her out early in the season Just as the crocus bloomed In the exuberance that precedes Any need for discretion. Innocent, she held his hand Gladly following as he led her Spellbound though the sights and scents And sounds of sadistic nothings sweetly Whispered in her ear. So softly did he speak She didn’t notice when His voice replaced hers. So slowly did he dim the lights She didn’t notice when The oranges turned umber The blues went slate. So slightly did he turn the dials She didn’t notice when The harmony of the strings and reeds Changed to dull, discordant static. So subtly did he administer his anesthesia She didn’t notice when The wool began to scratch, the leather tug The skirt tatter. His seduction near completion Her will half a heartbeat from extinction With her next breath Her soul would be his.