Storyteller
A poem, a sonnet, a tale, a rhyme. A whimsical story to pass the time.
A storyteller some say I be, a man from far away,
Armed with harp and a golden fiddle, I love to sit and play.
A story you want? I hear you cry! I almost feel the pity,
For a tale of woe I sing to you, from a once strong golden city.
The fiddle I play is all that remains from the city that once stood,
A gift from a stranger who didn’t hear my tales, yet I told him all I could.
The king I played for was a difficult man, but did all he could for his people,
To keep them safe even though not himself, but his mind was far from feeble.
Did I like the man? I admit not, but did he deserve to die that way?
A whisker of doubt to mess me about, but my conscience it won’t sway.
For I had a hand in the cruellest crime, unbeknownst to me,
I witnessed the death of the rich old king, but turned around ready to flee.
So sit there tightly and listen to the tale of the storyteller and the dark,
I expect you to listen and hear the end, for only truth could leave such a mark.
The city of gold travellers would say, and they weren’t very far from the truth,
With glittered gates and golden roofs it didn’t take much of a sleuth.
To see the wealth accumulated, by the strange secretive king,
The man the people whispered of, but in his presence they would sing.
So the king had his great party, to celebrate a new wife gained,
The rumours surrounding her discovery kept the people entertained.
For three days and nights the city partied, with song and food and dance,
The king, thirty years older than his bride, it hardly screamed romance.
On the final day of feast, with bellies full and strained,
A crow flew through the window and on the kings throne remained.
The king stepped back to call the guard, his skin had turned to white,
The crow leaped down and took his crown, the king knelt down in fright.
From the door a voice called out, the tone so deep it growled,
It called for the king to crawl to him -and on his knees he prowled.
The sun faded with surprise, as the stranger called the crow,
His arm pointed out to the crowd amassed, and a curse he did bestow.
“To celebrate the stealing of my daughter, from our home far away in the sand,
All who dance at this fine feast will die, be it woman, child and man.
Get ready to feel such pain, that you will beg for your early grave,
But struggle not oh loyal subjects for your king you cannot save”.
A shadow beckoned angrily, behind the strange looking man,
I crept away behind a drape as the shadow moved to plan.
It rushed quickly forward, in a mass of squawks, wings and beaks,
The skin tearing from the crowd, in a blood cradling display of shrieks.
The drape pushed back and I swear to this day…
I saw the devil before me, and in his eyes I will stay.
“So, you are a storyteller? Well I have a story for you,
To take forward from this day, if you will see it through?”
I nodded my head eagerly as I focussed on the man,
Ignoring the slaughter behind him, well doing the best I can.
“Storyteller I tell you this, the reason for this day.
The king you sing for, the man they cheered, is a sinner of the worst way.
He took my daughter and killed my wife, to steal away his prize,
His big mistake was leaving me to weep and sway the flies.
A witch foretold that day to come, but before she died she let me see,
A revenge so sweet to avenge the shadow, and it’s master is now me.
It’s true I’m cursed! I will carry the shadow, and never now grow old,
But go my storyteller before they finish, and take that fiddle of gold.”
Through blood and skin I walked the hall, the fear of my back being torn,
I understand that through this tale my life could be held scorn.
But I tell you now when you see a crow, don’t think it’s just a bird,
Just watch it’s eyes, the menacing stare and don’t think it’s totally absurd.
I see the slaughtered people, and think of the old greedy king,
His people swimming in their blood, who no longer dance and sing.
I will tell this tale for their souls! I will tell if far and wide!
I will tell it at the next feast I sing, where a king plans to take a bride.
If a lesson is to be taught, then the knowledge that must be gained,
It’s to not take what isn’t yours, for the fear of being maimed.
The king I heard may live this day, sleeping in his lonesome sin,
To remember the night of the bloodied bath and watch the stranger take back his kin.
So keep all that is yours close and safe, and remember before tonight,
In the darkness you merrily walk by, there could be creatures out of sight.
Demons waiting to show themselves, and then to welcome you in,
If ever you leave your moral path and choose to walk in sin…
The crowd closes in as I finish my rhyme,,
Eagerly waiting the end of my time.
But now I can see the lies in their cries,
The disbelief in some and the sinners eyes.
Dropping my fiddle and my cloak to the floor,
I finish my sonnet and point to the door.
My master stands still, with a bird on his cloak,
It’s feather’s the colour of the blackest smoke.
“Leave now storyteller and find me more men,
To feed my shadow and start again.”
A smile and bow I give to the startled crowd,
My words now ended, making the silence so loud.
They look with shock, from me to the stranger,
Their mouths falling open when they realise the danger.
Closing the door to the screams of the dying,
I seek his next victims and find no joy in the crying.
For the path I now walk is so alien to me,
I envy the dead, their lives ended and free.
Walking the path to the next church or inn,
I’m no longer a bard… I’m a feeder of sin.
