Canto I: Appeal

Said the poet in his desperate hour:

A supplication to the gods who feast
upon the pain-varietals of man;
An entertaining tease to pass the time
as ages wilt and rot eternally.
I sing a song that you may slake the thirst,
or rather, give you cause to let it slip
your mind, a willed omission. In repense,
confer upon you something to be told
when you, your greatest cravings cannot sate.
Thus is what I offer greater still
than any fleeting bliss you may derive
from all my fleeting mortal agony.

Though well you know the Earth in final hours,
succumbs, below, to man’s advanced disease,
I doubt you’ve heard of Fe, it’s matron high
and tireless devotee to her kin.
A hidden gem beneath the soot that smears
the earth; the faintest smile of love upon
The face of those that perish bearing young.
What horror could befall this votary wife
and tireless toiler in her family’s name
to cause her to neglect her constant watch
and lead her to this humble bar to drink?
A drunkard wanders near her, beckoning
through slurry tongue and eyes half cocked, for drink--
his plea is met with silence like a grave.
In hanging air, he senses her reply,
begins to set his sights on someone else,
when lifting up her head she thus replies:

Alright, I’ll keep you in your slurry state,
enhance your blurry eyes with further smear
on one condition: carry what I say
and tell the family of the one I held
and buried in the woods surrounding. Lest
my guilt should go untold, their anger stayed
when payment through my heart should rightly pass.