1. Indentured.
In my weary ever-after,
I can hear the manic laughter
Of a rancid, rotten goblin
Who has pilfered all my gold.
Such a nasty little fellow,
With his skin so vile and yellow
And his stubby, bantam fingers
Covered up in growing mould.
And I sit here as I wallow
In the dim and dismal hollow
Of the cold, relentless grave
Of which, in life, I had been told.
And I sense the trailing, toiling folk.
Beyond my reach, they pull and tow,
And gather precious bounty,
Which they sell and which they hold.
But as the bustling city streets
Leave their feigning lives complete,
They will not dare acknowledge
The cruel approaching cold.
From those who stride in startling silk,
To those who plead for bread and milk,
They are all slaves to destiny,
Bound to death, to rot like me.
Though not a thought they give to this,
Not a second, do they miss.
Not a nod to those below,
Nothing do they see.
The clasp of death shall choke us all.
They may dismiss this warning call,
But the cold confines of earth and stone
Is where, they too, will be.
And the foul selector goblin,
Farewell to me, he bade.
For the truth had been forthcoming,
He’d found grander crypts to raid.
And his purpose was deceptive,
For he was a meager image
Of the people that had walked above.
He too, would surely fade.