Streamers flame for a false crusade.
Where Gargoyles hang, fear is laid.
Sooty smoke fills the pier by night,
over ivory bridges, shadows fight.
Below the Gantry, a twisted trail,
when erring rider’s skin turns pale,
they’ll tell of kinsmen lost in the mire,
mislead at the Fork, by a saint and a liar.
Passengers believing those lyrical signs,
never drawn to read through the lines,
seldom dare to fire up their torch,
in case they burn the ties they scorch.
Crusted gems for a bale of brass.
Deep in the dale beyond the pass,
in a hidden cavern in a sunken keep,
under crystal gaze, fireflies leap.
Here rests the oracle, forever still,
bound by a mirror against his will,
rasping in rhyme, assulting their plight,
rewarding the just with all of his might.
By D.J Webb