The Golden Toll
The Golden Toll
His hand, a gift, they called it then,
The goose, a feather of shining rust.
A simple gift for a simple man,
A tale of virtue, turned to dust.
But from the goose, the gold would crawl,
A living vine of burning chill.
A slow and creeping, heavy pall,
That climbed and clung and had its will.
First, the girl, her fingers gripped,
Her scream a gilded, silent plea.
Her vibrant skin, it slowly stripped,
Of warmth and life and memory.
Then the baker, and the priest,
Their eyes still wide in terror's thrall.
They feel the cold within their breast,
Before the shatter, at his call.
The simpleton, he walks the road,
His mind now humming with a fear.
He feels the chill of his golden load,
He feels the whispers in his ear.
He sees their faces, frozen wide,
He hears the silence of their hearts.
And in their gold, he sees them hide,
The hungry goose tears them apart.
For now he knows the truth he holds,
The golden goose, a feathered tomb.
Its voice, his mind, now it controls,
And leads him to a gilded doom.
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