That would uproot the comfort in your heart
Tearing the simple joy in it apart
Along with any hope you had acquired;
If I were moved, or evilly inspired,
The words I'd write would make your innards start,
Disrupt the very soul of you, and part
Your ribs, to rend your lungs as you expired.
But tales like this are better left as hints,
Not told full out, where anyone could hear
Or written down for readers to devour.
Handled this way, their danger merely tints
The world, and does not dye it; leaves it clear
Enough for other tales to hold their power.
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