The Wolf’s Lair pt 7 – a poem series


Ancient wrongs done in times older than some

Minor deities have lain like festering sores

Beneath broad lakes poisoned by the dead

Things long expired under the still waters.


The autumnal air should be fresh and crisp,

Yet lies stale, as the moth musty dust smells

Of ages left rooms with too much forgotten

Detritus abandoned in darker times, fading

After metastasising.


Much work to be done, and the game is not

Over by anyone’s guess or rumour, the task

Of me and those of mine yet to come is

A thankless one at first, reward being its own

In the doing of the thing, not yet grown.


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