So I’ve been working on a series of poetry that I call “Archetypes.”  The intention is that every part of this poem is based around an archetype or character from a familiar story.  The first part is The Three Little Pigs–I’ll update everytime I have a new part to add.  For now, here’s part 1.

I. The Three Little Pigs

Pink, naked, writhing

Little miserable creatures

Hiding behind doors they build—

Walls they built

Of brick, hay, and sticks

Preferring the former red material

A close proxy to their mild complexion

Though the latter

Hay and sticks

Made from filthy matter

More closely resemble the animals

Who fall victim to the wind—

Its huffing and puffing

They call a wolf

Though they never

Leave their house

So how do they know

It’s a wolf?

The wind

Makes them cry wolf—

Cry wolf, it pleads

Cry wolf, it says

Cry wolf, it screams

And the pigs do

Thinking they’re safe

Behind the walls they build.

Three pathetic pink bodies

Inseparable in their fortress

Like the very bricks

They stack with mortar,

They will never part.

And if one falls

They all fall.

Of course they think

They’re justified.

Who doesn’t want that security

When it’s so very difficult

To step outside?

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