If travel you must
through wood which isn't
forest nor field
but a shadow of both
run down by mortal
minded hands and tongues,
sigh a quiet song.
Carrion dryads
in husks of sad trees
that once did breathe
and hug with their limbs
their nymph protectors
still dwell to this day,
lying grave in wait.
Moss unforgiving
with fungal decay
gnaws their skins and pricks
minds bright and spirits,
corrupting their cores
bitter with anger;
empty of purpose.
Melodic whispers
are all that may soothe
these writhing dryads
among trespassers
who dare transverse,
by chance or beknownst,
their homes' ancient sleep.
These words of warning
the heart never reached
of vein an elfkin,
heir to a kingdom
rich with fancy olde,
as rode he onward
to seek his lady. |
Brash he intruded
the loathsome province
of dark and slumber-
stricken nymphs, who with
his stallion's hooves
clomping wet earth
awoke in ire.
By guile they watched
the elfkin pass through
their awful domain
and noted his hair:
Long flowing locks blonde,
which fell upon threads
royal in bearing.
His eyes deep opal,
his brow and jaw firm,
handsome and noble
did he appear to them
and O! They did hate
the sight of one so
lovely and fortuned.
"A curse upon thee!"
they hissed and spit fourth
through their rotting grove
like soft a wind might
penetrate branches
of leafed willows
in a morning mist.
Then biting a breeze
did jostle the locks
of elfkin handsome,
and fierce did he grip
his belly and fell
fast his white steed from
into the mossy mud. |
In pain he wretched and
felt growing within
himself dark hunger,
which consumed his breath
and clouded his mind.
Wretched boils broke
his once lovely skin.
His frightened steed fled
and desperate, the lord
pulled his writhing form
through decaying muck
and all the way back
to whence he had come:
his kingdom of olde.
Turned sour did he
to all things beloved
by elfkin handsome;
his lady fair and
olde kingdom noble
henceforth were nothing
beside his hunger.
No morale nor man
has since that day dire
looked upon the lord
who from the grove crawled,
moaning in anguish.
It is said in songs
his curse is gruesome.
So if you travel
through wood which isn't
forest nor field but
a shadow of both,
run down by mortal
minded hands and tongues,
sigh a quiet song. |
Poetry