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Arisen with dusk, her form ascends
As her chariot soars the Carpathians
Her eyes e’er black as a raven’s syzygy among her steed’s descent
Darvulia waits near the fortress gates
Descending Cahtice her steeds in haste
The ardent night’s fog surrenders in awe to the countess’ form whose hair set the sky aflame
…
Come now, my queen, o’er the archangel’s flight
A virgin to whore I wish thee of this night
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Forest was a quizzical, whimsical young lad.
Over years, always happy, never mean, never sad.
Resting assured lay his parents, fast asleep every night.
Even the most ghoulish of nightmares would not give him fright.
Very happy, he always, to awake in the morn.
Eager to make breakfast, so out of the norm.
Regal the smells creeping slowly upstairs.
Yanking mom and dad from their slumbering lair.
On this morning, however, Forest was not himself.
Unknown to his parents, Forest thought something else.
Not a smile did he bare, but a malefic grin.
Cheery yet dark, so wreaking of sin.
Every plate was made neatly, not a piece of food did touch.
On this fateful morning, nobody did think much of
Forest’s cold stare across the table while they ate.
Leaving nothing untasted on their breakfast plates.
A Carnival of Fables 