The Curse
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The Curse is a dark poem written in 183 words, seven quatrains, and Clerihew rhyme. The image is by me Josehf Lloyd Murchison.
The Curse
Smitten, battered, beaten, torn,
to this spell, I am sworn.
To strike thee down on this day,
and with thy soul yea shale pay.
To whom that sees thee go insane,
writhe and scream in burning pain.
For all that look upon thy face,
may they chase thee from this place?
Thy ego broken battered by scorn,
and to thy soul justice is born.
See thy self as thine others do,
for when yea speak none is true.
When once thee thought yea were great,
I bring thee down to seal thy fate.
Thy stench of death shall follow thee,
and yea shall know deaths misery.
An evil deed yea have done,
one thee thinks yea have won.
So to thy deed thee are bound,
until resolution can be found.
For what yea have done now is true,
in every act that yea are due.
The only way to be undone,
thee must act for yea’s the one.
Suffer now I shall not wait,
with this curse I seal thy fate.
Smitten, battered, beaten, torn,
I curse thee now thy pain is born.
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
Copyright © Josehf Murchison | Year Posted 2024
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