Lamplight

Colonial river, before it was justly named,
Town houses of straw and wood.
Roads of dirt by heavy stride.
Guided prairie that merits nurtured,
Cared for by tool and pride.

 

At the edge of this settlement,
There sat a farmer's daughter.
Evading sight from beyond broad copse,
On a stump in the midst of July;
Wincing at a man named "Michael",
Unaware, he knew not why.

 

Michael indeed was a virtuous man;
That mattered much in the town he lived.
He'd not once ever touched the bottle,
Not once had he ever sinned.

 

He was a sporting individual,
Young, handsome.
Accustomed to labor, crack of the fork,
Many ways in the art he'd learned.
Fields plenty hoed and saplings grown,
Prayed to God and bowed each day,
Though intimacy he'd never known.

 

Priscilla, his admirer,
Well versed in the art of coition.
Though Michael had little interest.
The well-earned sweat from the summer heat,
He thought suited him best.

 

His onlooker thunk the same, she grinned and spoke his name,
Beckoning one approved by all;
Prepared to entertain.

 

John, well respected, a man deemed stout and shrewd.
Aged in the way of the land,
A barter he'd never refused.

 

He'd married young, at twenty-three,
A young woman's mate he'd agreed to be.
Priscilla, a maiden both fair and true,
Whispered softly on her wedding day,
"John, I love you."

Seven years of matrimony, happiness had seen no better.
The two in tow through hope's mysteries,
Union's embodiment, to the letter.

 

One day came, devoid of sparks,
Color in their home had died.
For the man she knew and once loved in earnest,
Priscilla no longer thrived.

 

Curiosity devoured her thoughts,
"But what of him, the one in beige?
Surely he could twirl a knot!"

 

Michael was naive, naught he knew of her intentions,
So casually walked the road he did.
Over the path created by them,
To partake of his first, and only sin.

 

Led away, from sight of eye, pitch of ear,
Led away towards the village stable.
Only by hay,
Behind a shoe maker's table,
Were they able to have their way.

 

Hours passed, cow bells rang,
Signifying the need to eat.
John, poor fellow, searching for Priscilla,
All day trodden through deathly heat;
Had ever once thought of the sight he'd meet.

 

There in the shed, what sight did he see,
"Good Gods! You jest, it certainly must not be!"
He thought in his recesses, and to himself abruptly confesses:
"To stab with knife, to bask in rye,
Crush a man's heart, live a lie."
Murdered me have you, your turn next it'll be,
Never shall be forgotten what you have done to me!"
He did not deserve the truth he had witnessed,
Though Michael knew of John's betrothed,
He could not resist his sudden urges.

 

John vowed then and there, with great care:
Requite Priscilla's damnation.
He was not the greatest of men;
But all through life, John's beautiful wife,
Was bestowed his felicitations.

 

The fellow John then walked away,
Deciding that they would rue that day!
Anguish subdued.
He knew for this: a price would be paid.

 

In this village of no name,
There came transports with sacks of grain.
Only in weather, deemed safe to travel,
Hardened wheels along the gravel.
John knew this, for he had helped,
Many times,
Relocate cargo to a durable shelf.

 

During the Winter, gelid and bitter,
The trade route would proceed to halt.
This, John planned,
Would be the most splendid time
To exact his revenge.
No one for countless steps would arrive,
Leaving no salvation, for a lengthy time.

 

All the while, two felons committed to serving their smitten desire.
Behind his back, John, aware in fact,
Sang equitably in the church's choir.

 

Feigned ignorance, oh yes, befitting a puppet.
Stranger things were seen;
The whole town clued in,
Of our poor man's betrothed,
But not once did they say it so.

 

Seasons passed, naught had differed,
The same battered heart, proceeded to wither.
All the same, nothing changed.
Except the temperature, and the terrain.

 

All trade was called off, the ice too thick,
The snow too high.
In this heap
No steed could ride.
And then he proclaimed,
"It is time."

 

That cycle of day to night must have been longer than all the others.
He pictured in his head, felt it with his chest,
This is where his bludgeoned heart
Would finally be laid to rest.

 

A blizzard came stumbling in,
Just before dark hit.
The only brightness that could be seen,
Was from a lantern that had been lit.

 

Plucked from her bed, to the stable was she brought;
Priscilla had been woken.
Beside her laid her subjected betrayal,
And not a word was ever spoken.

 

Michael's head rest on the floor,
His body, frigid, would move no more.
John's hands were worn, submerged in delight,
Basked in redemption by vim of the night!

 

Priscilla could not budge,
She'd viewed all too much.
The severed flesh of the man she'd seduced
Was the last thing she'd ever touch.

 

One clean swing, the deed had been done.
With this, they all lie dead.
Vessel to vessel,
All without a breath.
For failure to tell him what had transpired;
The hamlet's entirety was rightfully slaughtered,
By the man they had once admired.

 

Looking down on the bodies of the sinful,
John spoke one final time.
"This serves you fair,
Oh wife of mine."
By the light of the lamp, amaranth was shown;
And only the valley, heard the cries.