In the window of a tower in the midst of a dark wood,
A flaxen maned maiden stands where once a poet stood.
At the bottom of her tower, with a rose clasped in his jaw
Prowls a growling grinning, greying wolf smashing rosebuds 'neath his paws.
She keeps the wolf at bay as he circles round her tower.
She feeds him homespun roses; he cringes at their Power.
They taste of Beauty, Love and Truth (things he's never seen),
And his tempered heart grows angry; his savage soul grows mean.
She spins her roses in the Dark; she see them in her mind.
She covers them with blood and tears to show them to the blind.
His emerald eyes are mocking, but his velvet throat awaits
Another homespun rosebud which the maiden must create.
She drops her roses from her sill; they fall upon his ears.
They curb his shallow hunger and allay his primal fears.
Sometimes at night, she hears the wolf outside her spired room
As his velvet throat and golden tongue sing roses to the moon.
About the Creator
Fred Bobbitt
I am a rural American poet. I find inspiration in the simple things which comprise a country lifestyle.
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