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The albatross, a frozen, spectral wing,
Hangs heavy 'cross the sky, no solace it can bring.
A ship of bones, on seas of liquid lead,
Where cursed winds howl, and ancient horrors spread.
The mariner's gaze, a hollow, burning stare,
Reflects the ice, and whispers of despair.
The serpent coils, beneath the frosted wave,
A living shadow, from a watery grave.
The moon, a skull, with eyes of glacial fire,
Watches the dance, of madness and desire.
No stars ignite, this desolate domain,
Only the rime, and endless, biting pain.
The crew, a legion, with eyes like empty shells,
Their voices lost, in echoing, frozen knells.
They haunt the decks, a phantom, silent horde,
Their souls consumed, by what the sea's abhorred.
The ancient curse, a chain of icy might,
Binds them to darkness, in eternal night.
The mariner's tale, a fevered, chilling plea,
A warning etched, for all eternity.
To heed the signs, the whispers of the deep,
Where ancient forces, vigilantly sleep.
For on the edge, of rimefire's icy breath,
Lies madness waiting, and the chill of death.
The ship sails on, a ghost upon the tide,
Where frozen echoes, forevermore abide.
A monument to hubris, and to dread,
A chilling saga, of the living dead.
The albatross, a symbol stark and cold,
A story whispered, in the ages old.

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