The house buried under the sun,
the shimmer they hid couldn’t run,
for the age they held,
no more than a hesitancy.
If one could shallow a sinner thought,
the old cabin would allure,
for the smoke and ashes to sue.
The tantrum was lifting a tragedy,
of what they said about the wood;
a frantic horror and panic.
For what they had consumed,
they might remain the same.
The cabin wouldn’t look alive,
and the brown shade would suffice.
as if the fractal debris were there to swirl.
As the only living place in the wood,
oh, the agony to lose that place has raging,
only for them to survive,
from the wild roses.
Once the wolf echoed,
they should know their place.