The Thunder of the Beacon

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Photo (c) Pexels

Sires speak of old, wise men speak of then,

prophets in riddles, and poets of when.

Thunder comes second, seers come last,

mountains in misting speak of the past.

 

Ten doors to down, ten left to up,

one down below where beggars do sup

came the thunder of the beacon upon the hill

and the sayers and speakers grew silent and still.

 

High night to midnight, a score so it seemed,

the ramparts were rattled, the stone helms screamed.

The iron gates flooded, the raiders unleashed,

the marveling madness frightened the priest.

 

The priest fled with surety, the deacon did too,

the beggars absconded; the turrets were through.

The castle quivered with thundering rage,

the bandits were doomed within the stone cage.

 

The thunder of the beacon in his stone walls,

vowed vengeance and prison to curse all the halls,

and far from the mountain, far from the hills

the fleers on foot caught sound of the shrills.

 

Forever entombed, bound deep in the grave,

prisoners of Beacon whose punishment gave

no rest for the thieves, no treasures to play

and here rest the foolsome forever to stay.


Submitted: October 23, 2021

© Copyright 2021 L.E. Belle. All rights reserved.

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