The lone sits, oh he always sits By the fire where the pewter boils To fathom ashes and blackened pits And Despair’s smog began to roil
The lone sits, oh he always sits 
By the fire where the pewter boils
To fathom ashes and blackened pits
And Despair’s smog began to roil poems stories
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omizu
omizu Colourless green ideas sleep furiously
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
A Servant’s Fare
A gothic fiction

The lone sits, oh he always sits By the fire where the pewter boils To fathom ashes and blackened pits And Despair’s smog began to roil

Such power and august in his hands; my lord’s life keeps not well. Such adulation he commands, yet he says he dwells in hell.

My lady, one so fair, Smiles an outward pretence that the the eyes ne’er see. Her Highness is so starved for Fantasy’s air. So Mistress-princess, this’s your humble fee.

Loud rings the castle knell; Cool winds the canyon walls. Calm is the sea that spells Of tribulations and Mystic Balls. A land so rift’d apart Can’st not rail but toils it’s heart To farther distance and longer time, To prolonged vision in withered vine.

The lone sits, I always sit By the fire where the pewter boils To earthen ashes and blackened peat, To mortal sorrow and killened joy

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