Balancing on an oakwood stepping stool,
I wiped at the mirage of colors on the grease stained windows.
Another one of my "chores",
Placed on my ebony tresses by my stepmother.
Crystallized like warm honey on the outside,
But like dark sluggish tar on the inside,
A concotion of wicked spells, potions, and dark magic,
Which can take a life even from miles away.
Work, my child.
A princess by birth,
A servant by fate,
I listen to the enticingly belle notes of the singing birds,
I whistle to the hedgehogs tromping across the courtyard,
Play, my child,
A cloaked man takes my hand,
His palms sweating,
Through his tight grip on mine.
Drops of water cling to our fingers,
Slipping and sliding,
Guiding me through brambles of daunting thorn.
A ring of trees,
Darkness of dusk.
Embers from the sinking sun,
A gleam of metal,
And a cry of mercy.
Run, my child.
I run furiously like a heart on fire,
Like an ocean's wave,
Crashing onto a jagged cliff.
Embracing my fears,
Running from death itself.
Until the dewy grass of the early morning,
Gives way to a doll house,
With little blue painted shutters,
Seven tiny cozy beds.
Seven little men.
Stay safe, my child.
Thunder,
Lightening, 
A knock on the old wooden door of the cottage, 
An honest old women, 
With lips crinkling in a smile. 
An apple, 
My blood red lips, 
A touch, 
A bite, 
A tang of unsweetened copper, 
Darkness,
Sleep well, my child.