the bloody tower of lost lament
stands frozen to the hour
where on the ramparts highest reach
he'd held his perfumed flower
the vacant strain of memory
like a bitter teardrop falls
a distant jester trills a melody
but vengence scales the walls
boiserous warmth of beer drunk breath
concealed a dark intent
from cursed lips and kissed caress
sang the spell of deaths lament
the witches deed now almost done
as her jealous eyes beheld
two innocents now danced as one
in consciousness dispelled
a pale eyed minstrels cadence played
the bawdy doors thrown back
spellbound looks turn centre stage
a swordsman dressed in black
the evil hag screamed out her curse
cut short upon his blade
a final breath was cut mid verse
blood poisoned black night shade
gathering then his golden jewel
as silence fell around
he slew the witches chosen fool
cut him to the ground
no minstrel there would play again
so unfolds the widows tale
who slowly croaks her sad refrain
her son on sword impaled
a full moon casts its silver peace
across pools of yesterday
where tears of loss found no release
for the swordsman so they say
a white witch calls o'er that bloody tower
she casts three spells each day
across his golden jewel, his pefumed flower
that they shall have their day.
-
Author:
dusk arising (
Offline) - Published: November 17th, 2021 03:35
- Comment from author about the poem: This is a piece a posted some while ago. It tells the tale of a worthy prince whose intended has been kidnapped by a witch intent upon placing her under a spell and dis gracing her. The prince discovers her whereabouts and slays the witch, recovers his intended who sadly is still under the witches spell.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 30
Offline)
Comments4
A medi-evil tale vividly painted with a skilled hand and his word-brush.
Apologies if I have this wrong - I thought the white witch sorted it in the end...
The white witch tries by casting her positive spells but is never successful..... tis a sad tale of woe.
I wish i could get into that olde worlde frame of mind more often to write this kinda stuff. Maybe its the wrong label on the bottles i drink from.
Surely somewhere in Merrie England they still brew mead?
The Sherriff of Not-in-my-back-yard-ingham has guzzled the lot. Tubes of the amber nectar just leave me composing nonsense rhymes.
I knew a young lady from Sydney
i asked her for sex but she would-ney
and then in a rush
dragged me in a bush
and stealthily started to strip me.
Arr - can be wild round here once we're out of lockdown, the trains are running and the wind is in the right direction....
Summer in Sydney it all starts agin
Little chance of being saved from sin
Just to go shopping I’m in peril
From the market lady Beryl
Keen for some over-and-under’in.
Try as hard as I might, I simply could find absolutely nothing not to like about this entire page .. form, flow, font & even that mystical mauve helped to captivate this reader throughout .. of course the wording & language helped of course ........................ bloody bravo N
Medieval or bloody-evil.?... thank you Neville.
Very wonderful words d a.
Andy
Thank you Andy.
The content is great, but it isn’t my cup of tea.
Cor blimey you actually read someone elses poem... that makes 5 you've bothered to read. Some poet you are eh?
I know its not your 'cup of tea' all you write is mumbo-jumbo sermons and nobody pays attention. Versatile aren't you?
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