Grey stones line the dirty, beaten walkway.
Flowers burst forth from spattered drops of blood.
The sun rises; they’ll be here any day,
dragging her behind them, dress caked in mud.
Go west, the prophecy said, just go west.
The people smiled, told her she’d be fine.
She swore she tried, she really tried her best.
He hadn’t cared, just said now you’ll be mine.
But now the sky was falling from its height.
All the roses wilt and the trees crumble.
The kingdom cries in his evil, horrid might,
even as the castle rises humble.
And even as she screams, he gloats and preens:
“Come look, my brothers, at my brand new queen!”
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