Down the winding way I tread alone
These spiral stairs of mortared stone.
The crisp night air, 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
And watch this wicked tale unfold.
Massive, bolted door of oak,
Years asleep. I approach. It awoke.
Barring way, it impinges.
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.
He’s chained to wall. A ghastly 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 unrelenting gaze,
His story so long unread, untold;
From grasp so feeble now unfolds.
The king’s daughter with peasant had been.
Loving each other our only sin.
This dark dungeon I now do own.
My love treason, against the Thrown.
On withered face a tear he cried.
Long ago the tear had dried.
Lying here remembering why.
He wrote the tale … and then he died.
R K Olson ©1988
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