Once I bore unkempt hair,
a crown over a wondering visage.
Twas a time of smaller age,
when a had nary a care.

I was staff-bearing and sword-wielding,
princess from times of yore
and keeper of lost lore.
But my spirit could go only so long unyielding.

For there was a mask-wearing weaver
of a garish smile
who in his guile,
had made others a believer--

Of his wicked web of rampant lies.
This wretched thief of naivete
Left not a shade of perspective grey--
but black, without reprise.

What cruel beast of human shape
was cast down upon me?
And why could others not see
but merely question with mouths agape--

At the sins of which he reveled
merely for his stature?
Yet if done after
surely they would have been compelled--

To hear my pleas
and punish his evil hand!
And then at last I might command
my woe from drowning me like all the seas.

Alas, twas not
as I would hope, you see
for fate was most unkind to me
though of wrong-doing I had naught.

"But why?" I asked
"Princesses of yore, and wielders of old lore
they know happiness for ever more."
To that end I had been masked--

From the truth before my weeping eyes
that evil always has its say
even on the brightest day,
for peace is the keenest of lies.

Like he, the villains tall and small,
from fiercest orc to goblin whelp,
will always find fate's loyal help
while heroes are left to fall.

That is how it plays on the world's stage
I have learned and learned it well
that where white snow falls, somewhere else burns a hell.
And yet, perhaps this way is not a cage--

To conquer all of worldly ways,
For in my time--made wise--
I have come to see with my heart's eyes
one for whom this pattern sways.

He is a hero brave and strong
no prince and no knight
no dragon does he fight,
yet for him could be written king-worthy song.

So perhaps, the wicked do not always prevail,
not every time at least--but most--
and get their bitter dose
of a taste of what it is to fail.