The Village
The wells were poisoned long ago,
and from such malice did they drink,
that eerily clear water,
it didn’t bubble, boil or stink.
And soon the illness took them,
rotted brains and loosened minds,
the villagers turned upon each other,
and for false gods made their shrines.
Old dears with butchers knives,
carving sinew for their stew,
making quick work of younglings,
for a bloody brutal brew.
The guards were paranoid,
quick to bludgeon, beat and whip,
everyone’s a suspect
in a mind that’s lost its grip.
The men who fought in pubs
took their quarrels to the street,
lashing out on any soul
they were fortunate to meet.
And the kiddies sang their songs,
nursery rhymes and playful jeers,
then kicked each other senseless,
breaking bones with maddened cheers.
And soon the houses burned,
and the fields were grey with ash,
the survivors left unsated;
there was nothing left to thrash.
One by one they dropped,
their own lives in sacrifice,
with no other purpose
they knew it would suffice.
100 years abandoned,
no one brave enough to try
rebuilding upon grounds
cursed enough for brains to fry.
But soon the tales will fade,
and the warnings will be lost,
a new king will marvel,
at a kingdom, half the cost.
History repeats
when there’s no one left to tell,
about the eerily clear water
drained from the poisoned well.
Thank you for reading.
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