Once upon a time there lived
a lowly woman poor.
Her sole possession in the world
A blood red rose of thorns.
Her face now marked with signs of age,
her skin now void of rosy sheen;
her mind became one of a sage,
her body, thin and lean.
She walked up to the castle grey
to offer up a deal:
A room and warmth for her one rose
she held so very dear.
The master sneered and pushed away
the cold and shiv’ring mite;
“No need have I of your bouquet,
“Be gone!” He roared into the night.
“Beware,” she whispered to the wind,
“Regard those that thou dost deny.
For words have power deep within
not seen by nature’s eye.
A rose may have a few sharp thorns,
but true beauty dost lie within.”
In an instant, she transform’d
into a woman fair.
In all the world, no one could charm
with beauty to compare.
Upon his sight of her sweet face,
the master fell on bended knee.
In recognition of his fate,
he begged with heartfelt plea.
“I knew thee not, I did not see
the truth of thy request.
Thy visage did my eyes deceive,
but now, please be my guest.”
In pity she looked in his eyes
But there saw no remorse.
All she saw was his demise,
her voice declared with force:
“Your words have come forth far too late
to save you from your doom.
But Mercy, my dear friend of late,
offers this humble bloom.
“Enchanted are its petals red;
its blossoming prolonged.
It will fade ‘til thou art wed
to one who can perceive beyond.
“Thy beauty I will take from you
as penance for thy sinful deed;
to teach you how to live anew
and act not out of selfish greed.”
At once, his flawless skin grew fur,
his nails turned sharp and long.
His pure white teeth now jagged-edged
displayed his body strong.
The creature’s mouth let out a roar
in anguish and in sorrow.
His sins now were accounted for
in a life of sad tomorrows.
