The tower held its own mystique
Fog shrouding its glistening peak.
Drawing in princes, kings and lords,
Swarming in largely by the hoards.
Surrounding it was a great big forest,
Of thorns and brambles and lingering darkness.
It’s sharp points shining in slivers of light,
An unheeded warning to all of its hidden might.
Tall, proud and handsome they came,
Searching for fortune, luck and fame.
Defeated, tired, they were trapped to stay,
Skin, by the unforgiving briars, flayed.
Far, deep at the heart the thorns,
In the tower of rocks long worn.
Lay the prize they all seek,
Seemingly quiet, lovely and meek.
Her hair was of carefully spun gold,
Skin as pale and clear as oft told,
Ruby lips, so dark, so red,
O’ what a beauty she made!
On the grand bed she gracefully slept,
Betwixt her hands, a rose she held.
In her long sleep, she dreamt and dreamt,
Of dead and forgotten princes; gaunt and unkempt.
The night was frozen, silent and still,
Hopes of treasures yet unfufilled.
Another pained, frightening cry
Rose, trembling, shrilly, into the sky;
Inside, she peacefully smiled,
Sweet, just for a little while.
Her scarlet lips glinted, out it jut
Seemingly painted, brilliantly, in blood.