Once upon a time
deep in the woods, beyond the pines
where light was green, filtered through lush canopy
there, where the soaked earth remained for days
there, where the birds took solace from beasts
roamed a little old She in a clearing.
Her grizzly mane, the yellowed teeth,
those manic eyes beneath the fringe,
or such smile as there ever was,
the curdling cacophony
circles upon circles at the edge of trees
her eyes ever scanning, ever seeking
the one and only path to free.
There was a day of old in memory
when the woods had be thinner still
and dear old Papa had seemed caring
leading his kids to safety, hungry and in need.
Not such a good Papa, thought she
staring back at the old house, crumbling,
soaked like cookie in tea.
She’d been a young one once,
with a name, and a sibling
till the evil old witch thought she’d feed.
Round and round the trees she went, manic and mad,
freedom from the trees,
no more bread crumbs remained,
Just weak old Gretle, frail.
Lonesome and loathing were the days.