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
boisterous 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 perfumed flower
that they shall have their way.
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Author:
dusk arising (
Offline) - Published: September 16th, 2017 00:06
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 84
- Users favorite of this poem: Noah
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Comments7
Good write, may the knight come up smelling of roses.
LOL brilliant comment! made me laugh yet again.
I am sure he will be smelling of roses - just hope he took the fungal spray with him - my roses are covered in black spot at the moment 🙂 🙂 Great write dusk
i'm not quite sure the reference was made to actual roses though. Thanks for comments.
That's Andy leading me astray. Shall we go for jasmine - it doesn't suffer from black spot.
What's going on in that tower there?! heehee.
Dunno now, but there was a lot of giggling going on earlier. Can you smell roses?
This poem is awesome, and so is the picture!
Thank you Fred, glad you enjoyed this.
A mighty find Saturday tale with a twist methinks in that minstrel's cadence. Magical read.
Many a minstrel has a tale or two to tell indeed. Thank you Fay.
You sit on the windowsill gazing, created such a great poem with a tale. What kind of genius are you?
The genius is a visitor who occasionally stops by the window and smiles but quickly dashes off. Thanks for your comment.
A very impressive poem here I must say.. Five grand stanza's each building on its poetic predecessor and maintaining momentum, story-line and appeal right through to the eventual mystical almost mythical conclusion .... Neville
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