Uninspired,
Worn and tired
From days spent
Travelling hither and yon.
The old bard rests,
His days of quests
A bleek memory
To brood upon.
His quills now broken,
A bitter token
Of youth
And desire faded.
His ink-stained hands
Once held the sands
Of time,
Now antiquated.
No measure of rhyme
Will return his time
Spent now
In restless repose.
His eyes now shadowed
His spirit sallowed.
No beauty
Remains in his prose.
He curses the sky,
Why, oh why
Must I linger
Even now.
Better to plod
The rocky sod,
To stay fettered
To the plow.
At night he dreams
His forlorn screams.
His songs of valiance
Forgotten by men.
Now alone,
No hearth or home.
No one to call
His kin.
With candle taper
And scrap of paper
He sets to write
His final ode.
In dark of night
He scribbles his plight.
Angry croaks
From a poisonous toad.
While he sleeps
The Goddess creeps
In to read
His heartless measure.
Is this his sum?
What has become
Of the words
She used to treasure?
Awaken, old man!
Can you not hear Pan
Playing thy favored songs?
Take up thy pen
Make right again
All these pitiful wrongs.
The angered bard
Could not retard
The spiteful words
Now spoken.
Look at me!
Can ye not see
My spirit
Is finally broken?
I sang thy praise
In my youthful days
Yet now
I am cast aside.
No fortune, no fame
Did ever I gain.
Alone I am left
To abide.
Fortune and fame?
Was this the game
That led thee
To take up thy pen?
I gave thee the moon,
The song of the loon.
The histories
Of gods and men.
This did I share,
I gave to your care
As a token of
My love.
Yet thy gift ye squander,
And now ye ponder
Why there be no
Riches to speak of.
I ask ye this,
Why did ye dismiss
The bounty
I laid at thy door?
My promise I've kept
And oft I've wept
For thy oath
Ye keep no more.
The old bard humbled,
His vengeance now crumbled,
Begged for one
Last reprieve.
Ye grant me tonight
The gift of true sight.
Mine own self
Did I deceive.
Allow me again
To take up my pen
And I will forever
Sing thy praise!
For one last chance
These old bones will dance
To find favor in thy gaze.
The Goddess smiled
At her wayward child.
With mercy
She gave her consent.
With unbridled glee
He cried Blessed be!
And with a bow
She silently went.
The bard did pack
His worn leather sack
And set out
For parts unknown.
And in his final days
He sang her praise,
Knowing he never
Walked alone.

... Moone

Copyright © Dwareniel Moone