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The Bidding of the Faeries
Knowing wicked, willing evil,
To the land of clouds had come.
I ventured where the sky had settled,
Glowing realm, tones pink, rose, plum.
There I sought to find the maidens,
Fair of face and bright of wing,
Do their bidding as demanded,
Seeking out each one small thing.
On alabaster silken nimbus,
Did I find the faeries few.
I told them of my wish to help them,
Asked them what I had to do.
Forth they sent me on a mission,
Trinkets they did wish to hold.
Bring them fast to earn their favour,
Don't refuse, they'd softly scold.
I ventured far, I ventured yonder,
Over clouds and cobalt sea.
Sought the stores with treasures hidden,
So magic would be blessed on me.
Days went by, I wandered daily,
To the place the faeries play.
Listened to the things they wanted,
Took rewards they passed my way.
Small favours that they gifted to me,
Strength or increase in my speed,
They'd satiate my deepest hunger,
Gift me hit points I did need.
Alas, it seems the dream was ending;
Few days did it seem remained.
Yet they promise more to follow,
Magic can not be contained.
Stained Glass Glory
Pounding hammers, flickering flame,
Shaping out a metal frame,
Pieces and shards of coloured glass,
Shining red like rubies, green like
When the sun shines through Brightvale's mist
The purples gleam with amethyst
And the blues in skies and rivers
Seem to go on past the glass
It's an art, it's a land
On a far-away strand
Where the trees are shining
And all the stiff clouds
I watch the dappled light stream
It creates in my head a colourful dream
Of walking through these gleaming meadows
And rivers -- but then I remember that it's
The Lost City
This city just oozes memory,
The draw for me, I confess,
But missing is the culture's key
In this lonesome wilderness.
Our Island history can be quite a mess,
A very frustrating sensation.
All is conjecture, educated guess,
When researching a long-lost nation,
Who knows what was lost in translation?
Ivy caresses the worn grey stone
Of the Tomb, the lone puzzle piece.
Artefacts of feather, vine, and bone
Covered by cobwebs like Babaa fleece,
Testament to countless years of peace,
A simple pot, a jar, perhaps a tool.
Oh, what wonders never cease
A child's toy, a shining jewel.
Time's an eraser, so very cruel.
How dare you think to cross me;
You look so smart and smug.
You think that you're so clever,
But trust me, you haven't won.
Perhaps I'll set my wraiths on you,
Or maybe give you to Sophie,
And then she'll make you into a stew.
I might even just give you to Bart
At his apple-bobbing stand,
And you don't want to know what will happen then.
So sleep with one eye open,
For my revenge is what's to come.
You've think I've lost but I have not.
This game is not yet done.
That Crazy Little Fir
The Fir, a wintery Petpet,
is a funny little thing!
It has no special features,
it does not have wings.
It is just small and green,
and likes to be in a cold place.
It's not very audible,
but has a smile upon its face.
They don't listen at all well,
but they don't really know
what you're saying, what you're thinking,
they just bury their heads in snow.
It may be worth some Neopoints,
but they aren't that rare!
In fact they live in Terror Mountain,
and there are plenty to spare!
So when you want a Petpet,
and if you love snow,
and if you want a friend to talk to,
you know where to go!
Total Poetry Pages : 1914
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