Poetry

Rumpelstiltskin (draft)

Pointed, the spindle spins

weaving the golden thread that

gathers together all of humanity’s desires.

 

The wheel rotates as the world rotates,

conjuring lustrous yellow

from dull.

 

But ever such beauty is poisoned

by greed,

the devious imp knows this.

 

Contorting knowledge  to flay

unsuspecting beings, he languishes

in the sweet syrup of despair.

 

Laughing cowardly tears

as he drinks in the great

spoils of straw.

 

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