Wordless demise

I say, make room for the new.

But remember, when returning through the forest, Kept warm against the night by a cloak Of the wolf’s pelt: The hunter is also a wolf.

Go on, spin out, regale The graceless fairies with a tale that’s new — You’ll be the heroine of that one, too.

Least of all Cinderella.

Your bones she’ll toss upon the apple peels.

Under her guidance, both wise and refined, the kingdom prospered, happily ever after.

What I do not tell him is that I will again leave the path and wander into that fragrant green wood and when I see coat of silver, eyes of gold, I will follow.

In the north country a child finds her dreams unchanged: Each morning she wakes and cannot understand why what mattered most is gone from her hands.

He turned slowly away and walked off into the night.

‘We’re very lucky.’

It’s the only thing that’s never been tried.

My tale goes only to here; it ends, and the wind carries it to you.

And then you open up those castle doors and walk alone into your beautifully crafted sunset.

They raise them to wither in front of every man that gives them even an inkling of the love they never received from their father.

“I awoke in a cold room, hunched on the floor beside a black and empty grate, the clock striking three, and the siren howling overhead.”

We left the field of metallic corpses behind and walked across the valley beneath the vast and terrible beauty of the dawn.

Although from birth I have been told that in not being so I have failed my purpose as a whole.