“What if Little Red Riding Hood was a werewolf”

Deep in the forest—a moonlit red hood,  
A basket in hand, where the willows once stood.  
But hush—she walks lightly, her footsteps are sure;  
Not prey, now, but predator; both wild and demure.

Grandmother’s cottage is close, lanterns aglow,  
The wind stirs her cloak as she travels below.  
Not naive now, she wanders with gleaming gold eyes,  
The wolf in the woods now wears her disguise.

No fear of the darkness, she runs with the night,  
Her cloak shimmering scarlet in silvery light.  
To the whispering shadows, she answers with song,  
The pack in her heartbeat—where she truly belongs.

Dear Granny cocks eyebrows, a kettle on steam.  
“Oh, child, what big secrets! Your eyes have a gleam!”  
With a smile that’s half-moon, Little Red bows her head:  
“It’s the better to love you, for I’m wolf now instead.”

The hunter, who’s lost his role in this tale,  
Peers through the clearing, his purpose grown frail.  
For Little Red’s power swells full with the moon—  
A heroine wild who now writes her own tune.

So here in the forest, the story retold:  
A girl and her wolfness, courageous and bold.  
She howls for the lost ones, she runs with the free—  
Little Red of the wild, where her heart longs to be.

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