The Wicked and the Fair

Poetry

the light and the shadow, mingling,

tell a story older than bones, than dirt,

of how the world spins on its axis

and triumphs despite futility in motion

the mother beckons her children close

and recites old lullabies her own mother

whispered by midnight starfall gleaming

the father pretends to live a life worn

by the cracks on his hands, the ache

in his back, heart crumbling bit by bit

and the children themselves, girls,

find themselves in the forest paths

and the whispers of the trees above

but in those weeping places, each one

bearing its weight of tales long untold,

power rises and falls, like breath in sleep

the myths and fairy tales alone speak

of sins and saints alike, good and evil —

yet the words are only a fraction of truth

born from millennia past, tainted by man

the mother leaves her earthly plane,