Winding down, I tread alone
These spiral stairs of mortared stone.
The crisp night air is damp and still.
My mortal bones begin to chill.

Compelled, I am to go and seek
Such things of which one should not speak.
To search for mysteries untold.
Listen as this tale unfolds.

Massive, bolted door of oak
Years asleep. I approach. It awoke.
Barring my way, it impinges
With crusted, rotted, rusted hinges.

Sliding bolt, the door. It creeks.
A hideous game of hide and seek.
Door aside, I venture in,
This place, where light has seldom been.

Unspeakable things do now unfold.
My candle flickers, my eyes behold.
This man I see by my dim light.
Chained to wall, in line of sight.

At candles light unblinking stared,
He demands his story must be shared,
With other souls beyond this room…
Trapped so long in darkened gloom.

Vision now clouded, and darkly glazed -
With a hollow, piercing, soulless gaze -
His story so long unread, untold -
From grasp so feeble now unfolds.

The Princess with this peasant had been.
Loving each other, our only sin.
This dark dungeon, I now do own.
My love treason, against the Throne

On his face, many tears he cried.
Long ago, the tears had dried.
Lying here remembering why,
He wrote the tale, then sadly died.

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