A Waltz With The Beast

Arden Silver '27

The strange little teapot says: he’s not truly like this,

that there’s beauty

                             underneath.

She must see deeper than I. 

For who finds beauty in whetted claws, bristled fur, pointed fangs?

Beauty,

is in the books in the grandiose library the beast hides away.

Beauty, 

is in the ethereal rose bushes confined in the      walls      of the castle gardens. 

Beauty is my name. 

The beast perplexes me.

Invites,

no–

demands me to dinner,

as if I would want to dine with the devil. 

His haunting rage

follows me through the soundless corridors, 

it travels on restless winds from 

the west wing.

Whispering to me. 

Yet,

when death      pounced      from the jaws of wolves,

the beast was there.   

Saving me.

Je ne crois pas. 

How does the devil save the damsel?

He’s not a devil at all.

Perhaps a bit brutish, but 

                                        under,

a heart caring enough to save a peculiar girl,       like       me. 

So I’ll give him a dinner,

I’ll give him a waltz.

For,

he gave me his library,

and opened my heart. 

So we’ll dance,     we’ll float. 

Twirling, and 

                      dipping, 

and maybe, just maybe, there is something there, between,

la Belle et la Bête.