A tale of a reclusive,tomented soul |
The Mage In a tall, dark tower of dull gray, He sits His frail body bent over a desk, reading A silken black cat sits silently beside him His tired, old hand scribbles away in a leather bound book He is content in his studies of the Occult His hair is long and white, as is his beard His fingernails are long and sharp He has seen many years, and will see many more He has no cares for others pleasures The Pub Hoppers drink and smoke their poisons They whore about with little care of the world around them They care not for the Secrets of the ancient ways They care only for their own pleasures and lusts The Priests pray and preach their truths They lecture others because they do not know of to live They care not for the Knowledge of the ancient ways They care only for their penance and collections The Aristocrats argue and scheme with their black hearts They betray one another for rank and gold They care not for the Power of the ancient ways They care only for their money and politics People from walks of life come to him They bid him to join them He turns them away coldly But he dies to live a normal life He wishes to be able to drink a pint or chant a penance StormRaven, his familiar, is the only one that knows his hunger His anger, his pain, and his lust to live as others do They can both hear the yelling in the street Quietly the mage goes over a looks down into the dark streets The Pub Hoppers are back They yell for him to come out and drink with them Their yelling intoxicates him and his dark anger grows His Energies build A sudden flash in his eyes and a blast of lightning sets the streets silent again He walks back to his desk and collapses in tears With every tear does his heart harden more and more He wipes the tears away angrily And loses himself in his work once more For he is a Mage |