Rumplestiltskin dreams of being the Marquis de Sade as read by Juliana Sun

Rumplestiltskin! Rumplestiltskin!

repugnant munchkin magician 

sitting atop his spindle feeling tall

weaving the steeple's hay straw into gold,  

abominably nefarious, and whereas 

any foe is perilous, this one made the task at hand 

seem corporeally effortless. I swear! I could lie! 

But what hope could I write such odes without knowing his name? 

Or to win tin awards with but unhumble words?  

I am not he who would wantingly weave 

diamonds and jewelry merely from dreams.

I am the Marquis de Sade, so to speak. 

And in jest I can draw a fresco without rest 

that would become the epitome Nuevo Chic.

I can open the doors letting memories forth 

only to padlock it once more with my teeth. 

My charms and my wits are my pith, and my pitch 

is that of a lover who would persuade Fate and the Gods.

I'm awaiting the lion's roar with a gladiator's sword.  

My quill and my quips in my fist. Now, where shall we begin? 

How to show significance? The question is this...

Juliana Sun puts down her poetry book and thinks,  

"It's such a virginal thing bearing this to being.

Fabricating the imagination. Making sure it is born.

Tearing through aborted thoughts like paper towels

and using the shreds to wipe away your tears.

Closing your eyes and sighing deeply.

Opening your heart again. Asking for love.  

Looking forward to a new day. I think,

The Marquis de Sade would even say

the exact same thing."