May 9, 2017


I once believed that if I read
too many tales of fantasy, 
somehow a witch would find a way
to make my life a travesty.
She's pile on my scrawny head
whatever mash her cauldron made,
then melt to mush my sanity.
I'd chase that little Riding Hood,
cleave her head with a wedge of steel,
or follow Snow White bashfully.
I'd shed fake tears and disagree,
I'd stomp my feet in nasal whines,
I'd live my life vicariously.
But is it smart to live a lie?
Perhaps I ought to give the boot
to books without a shred of truth.

(C) 2017 by Salvatore Buttaci

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