A Red Riding Hood
The dark thoughts in her head
would pop,
and the fear was her enemy,
that much was said,
but she didn’t stop,
she proceeded ahead,
a young girl, pure,
feet sure,
and the grass gave way as it should,
to this little red riding hood,
leaves cracking, branches bent,
the sound and scent
of a wolf blew on the wind,
as she moved relentlessly
pausing only now and again
to catch her breath,
she knew that facing the wolf
was almost certain death,
something whispered in the darkness
of the night,
the wolf emerged silhouetted
against the moon’s light,
she fought back a scream,
then she heard a river’s stream,
the wolf knocked her on her back,
slowed the attack,
then turned her around,
face in the ground
her arms trembling ever so slightly,
the air was cold,
her small boots dangling,
digging into the earth to hold,
then swung free again,
nothing stirred, nothing was heard,
she listened,
the wolf’s eyes glistened,
her senses quietly separating the tune
of the water from the tune
of the gently blowing leaves,
but nothing else was heard,
not a cry nor a single word,
then it struck her gradually,
everything would unfold,
and nothing else needed to be told,
a chill came over her arms,
her throat, and finally her face,
that night was too lifeless,
and she died in that place.
Copyright © Frank F. Atanacio | Year Posted 2011
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