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Wisk me from this towered stack,
As wicked witch has brought me back.
My hair cannot create a rope,
And freedom is the love I lack.

Your shining armor made you bleed,
As you came in upon your steed.
I threw my tissue to your hand,
To wipe the crimson was your need.

You called me fair; You called me pure;
And of a save I was unsure.
But she returned and pierced your shield,
And I had lusted for allure.

I sat upon the windowsill.
All the remorse had made me ill.
She smiled at me but couldn’t see,
The hole she made but could not fill.

I see the corpse upon the ground.
I cannot hear the wicked sound.
As her voice sings of love so true,
I wonder if I’m love she’s found.

© Sylwia Wielgosz 2003.