I meant to go to bed early. I wasn’t feeling great earlier, and the world wouldn’t end if I didn’t write today. But then I had this line in my head.
Well, I could write a little. Right?
So, I wrote and deleted and wrote and deleted and time passed and the next thing I know, the time for going to bed early was gone.
But I had a bee in my bonnet (that damn bee harasses my bonnet quite a lot) and I couldn’t let the failed story go. In frustration, I’ve taken aspects of the story, and put them into a poem. It will have to do, but at least I can go to sleep now.
Thanks for reading!
The witch and the rope-maker fell in love.
It was a love that could not be.
He wove her ropes of gold and flowers
and said, “Please, marry me.”
“No, I can’t,” she said quite plain,
“Unless you never make another rope.”
He promised her and crossed his heart,
and she did give in to hope.
But still all throughout their land
were the many ropes he’d ever made
and though she didn’t speak of them
thoughts of them, they did not fade.
But a witch can’t be suffered to live
and the hunt was always going to take.
Fear did win, that day, my child,
and his rope, it didn’t break.