Remember the lies, the archetypes
that made our lives complete:

the little girl in red who dressed up
like her dying grandmother
only to lure a wolf to bed,

the couple who sent their kids
to a slow diabetic death at the
candy house built by the village witch,

the grisly black birds of Death
that were baked into the king's pie
by a treacherous servant,

the twins who, vying to kill each other,
went up the hill to fetch some water
and, by coincidence, pushed
each other down at the same time.

One day, I shall have to tell everyone the truth:

Always, the essence of an empty box
is in the emptiness inside, not in the flaps
that define where the emptiness hides.

Always, we must slip inside this fabric
of madness, because that is
the only thing that will keep us sane.

Always, the flawed side of the gods
must lie behind them,
the side that we can never see.