Forsooth
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In a world ruled by gods and men,
who holds in their hand nature's pen?
When words are smitten to deaf ears,
dost one conclude their deepest fears?
Thy skilled soothsayer is portrayed,
as nothing more than a beggar paid.
A wandering derelict of the past,
his bardic tongue now shall avast.
On a park bench, he sleeps at night,
oft Poe's "The Raven" he does recite.
'Tis thy chilly nights he dreads the most,
so in his prose, he gets engrossed.
The birds doth come and hearken in,
as he weaves his tales and rhymes within.
This man was once like you and me,
so sad this world could never see.
Copyright © White Wolf | Year Posted 2017
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