Wicker envy, and wrath upon the broken wrists
That tempt fate and
All to come, on a weary journey.
Unforeseen by mages and knights that joust like
Awful opinions, that seem pointless
And barbaric to the common soul.

Have another bowl of soup,
And heal,
In time, for another scrap of destiny
To sworn its presence in front of thee,
And mark a slap on the face.

Reckon thine future, or amass quickly with death.
There are no ghosts here.
Something profound, and otherwise homely.

There isn’t much butter on this bread.
And the soup is gruel, and witches tools
Assembled every brick of the hut of the mage.
Who only wanted to scribble on parchment.