My life a mountain, it’s Greek climes
An island of poet kings old rhymes
Days of the dog, a corpse consigned to the bog
Rises up coated in peat slime
His veins are empty
His pains which in his life drove him insane
Gone spun away like wind vanes
He will kill plenty, fold twenty
His gaze still insane he trains
Sights on them who drank his blood like wine.
Longseated spine cracks as he sits up the ravine
A layer of dirt very fine
Tattoos him brown and looks down at ruined raiment, yet refined.
Revenge like steed rides his mind
Bloodfeed death of dismal kind
Which none divined else elsewhere they should resign to, and not be here dead in lean-to
Fully cleaved through and a wolf doing as a wolf do.
On stove simmers stew that will not be served.
He roves, terse terrains, the many whom death deserve he will not desert
Crossing red earth and earth cursed, his purse fit to burst like the loot chests of Ur
Alchemisland 
Leave a comment