Poem By Vincent Topp
Every little red riding hood
Walks into the forest unprepared
Who would expect the wolf
When your heart is the unstained innocence.
He lurks here in reality, not in legend, not in folklore
In the place where innocence is raped, stolen, buried
The soil is crying and whimpering if you listen close enough.
She knew where she was going
But did not feel the eyes of envy on her
Didn't notice that for every step forward
The forest was spinning on its axis
Where she thought she was going was not where she was headed
‘Princess run, run’ She thought she heard the wind whisper to her.
Mines where the skeleton army are made to work
Till the foreman of death is board with torment
The restless souls with the cruellest trick played on them
The memory and thoughts remain
The body’s long since decayed
There is no resting place.
Six feet beneath the nearest feet of innocence
‘Run Princess Run’ the wind pleads in desperation
The ground swallows and the wolf gives the grin of evil smile.