A Tale of Olde


Oh, of despair, despair;

With just my soul to spare;

Those who seek this such life;

Will always meet much strife.

How willows and vines reach low;

Of foliage was born my beau;

Fair and radiant as a rose;

Much more deserving of a poets prose.

Alas, a poet was not this poor boy;

As such was he just a ploy;

Of wicked hearted men;

Who would surely bring the maiden’s end.

She beside a plentiful well;

This poor boy had his heart to sell;

When those bright eyes rested upon him;

Was when he knew to tell her then.

‘Precious maiden of the vine,

Surely your kiss is equal to the finest wine,

Only such beauty that come from the south,

Just truths come from this poor boy’s mouth’

Oh how her laugh was of angels;

Soft like rain dropped petals.

‘My dear poor boy lost in love,

How I could tell you anything else my dove,

But surely you must know of my fate,

As I fear you have arrived much too late.’

‘The cruelty of your world keeps me here,

To lament unknown love year to year,

I watched you from seasons afar,

And your youth leaves my heart with a scar!’

‘My life as I knew fled me fast,

And here I stay at the well of my past,

I remember the vivid nightmare,

And the unnerving lords lustful stare.’

Thus with this I stood confused,

Until the fear of realization left me subdued,

As her complexion of summer stone,

Turned whiter than a desert bleached bone.

‘Ah, you are no fair maiden,

You are the temptress of Satan!

Your unearthly soul wanders the well,

Bewitching any man under your spell!’

Her wails began from deep down,

A rotting hand reached from where she had drown,

Her skeletal grin showed to me,

And without a word was to which I flee.

‘You can’t escape me poor boy,

I will find you as you are but a toy,

Come back and embrace my form,

I assure you will not mind being torn.’

‘I will force your heart to love,

This decaying angel of above,

For you feel the aching of touch,

Oh I will devour your flesh such.’

And how this poor boy ran,

Until my legs faltered too much to stand,

Only when the banshee’s screams died,

Did my soul finally stopped and cried.

I implore any of who find,

Their very souls on the line,

Never embrace the maiden of the well,

For you she will drag to the depths of hell.


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