the chill in the air turns biting, as the bard takes his seat
around the campfire filled with tales of love, death, triumph, defeat
of unsung heroes, better halves, of tarnished youths and broken pasts
with lines of tears, pain and sorrow, which will forever last

lives cut short are stories in which he dwells
with utmost subtlety, almost boring even, in its telling
but your rapt attention, he’ll sure to capture nonetheless
for he’ll take away what’s not his in the ending

as pompous and presumptuous, he sits at the fire’s head
uncaring to those who have no desire to give him audience
for he’ll make you listen, he’ll make you fear, make you dread
will make you plead for reprieve, reverie and futilely, patience

once his tale is done, he will walk away without preamble
oblivious to all his sins or to the whispers of his peers
he’ll leave no listener anxiously waiting for his return
for he’ll always give what no one asks and steal what they most yearn


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