At the Wishing Well long ago,

I stubbed a toe; thinned blood

in crimson water. Upon

the casted spell, I became the

fool by the con of the well.

The deceitful came, their

wishes shallow. They didn’t

understand my well only

grants ground water.

My insults wore a cloak—a phony

gift for each selfish wish, while

their souls did drift.

The mirror of my waters

warned them of their sin,

the hill at my feet urged them

to slow, yet limb did bend;

Self-inflicted did their body deform.

Yet if wishes fell like rain,

then certainly I am the storm.