It (#Wattys2016)

hurry (before the wolves come)

Move faster, my dear, skip your way past the flowers,
Speed onward, my dear, to cherish what's ours.
I remain a shivering mess in these wicked, wild woods,
Hungry for affection, hungry for blood.

Share words with the wolf that'll ensure your demise,
Don't be afraid, dear, of his beastly, red eyes.
Dear, you've rushed, you've wasted much time,
Not laughing, not singing, not speaking in rhyme.

Gather those lillies, bundle them nicely and sweetly,
For poor grandmama, whose death was quite beastly.
Her screams were quite muffled - the curse of the old,
Whose youth had long strayed, to tombstone from gold.

Now, my dear, come knock at the old, rotting door,
Ignore the loud creaking of the ancient, wood floor,
Sit on my lap and maybe I'll share you a story,
About a lousy, young girl who'd forgotten to hurry.