The poets tale

He recites today’s epic tale, though he feels his words are rather stale

He’s lost all muse, without a doubt, but cannot find a new way out.

Taught to recite at an early age, He’s fed up of writing for a measly wage

As he hardly has a heart, taking pen to paper, he knows not where to start.

In his younger, virile days, he wrote of love in maidens’ gaze;

His words, they came so easily then, before he read them again and again.

Here he stands in trinity square, a middle aged man with thinning hair,

A bard, a scribe an artist, a poet, he just wished his audiences knew it.

He takes of his feathered hat, hoping his performance is not so flat,

Stares out to the listening crowd, and starts reciting his words aloud.

His epic fantasy enthralls, toothless hags pull into their shawls,

He sees the young page seducing a maid, he laughs and talks of dragons of jade,

He notices guards standing tall at the castle, one in armour getting hassle

From an elderly gent with an oversized horse, on goes he with his tale, faultless of course

In different towns throughout Ruana, he’s told his story over and over,

As he reads the final stanza, he looks up and then he sees her,

The most beautiful being he’s ever seen, he falters he stops, a golden queen

A stirring occurs as he finishes his reading, his breath caught, he sighs, his heart is beating

He continues to stare, in her eyes such beauty, to get close to her, will be his next duty.

The next instalment will hopefully be up for the poets rally on Thursday.

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