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Beware the sunset,

and all which that entails,

the creaking ancient doors,

those craven witches' wails!

Don't stay alone in the shadows,

or your wives may become widows,

as the Grim Reaper grins,

the crows and ravens sing,

Once they found one who had strayed,

his frail back had been flayed,

the worms had gnawed his flesh,

and his clothes no longer fresh,

But save your innocent pity,

he was a pariah of the city,

an artist and writer once proud,

known to speak aloud,

Alas it was that they had him,

those foul servants of Lord Ozrin,

denying the accepted claim,

that Lord Ozrin should always hold sway,

Despite his claims of prudence,

Lord Ozrin was vein and clueless,

no awareness of genuine need,

spreading mistrust and greed,

Since none would dare defend,

this artistic heritic,

was no knave or lunatic,

to hell they let him trip.

A Poem by Julian Hawksworth

Posted by: Admin on 21 June 2010