THE CASTLE OF CORBIN
The crypt stands in a wine morass,
a bastion of fantasy,
its core a room of ancient stones
replete with mire of centuries.
Singular fool he'd have to be--
the one to move its crumbling gate;
such lunacy is not unknown,
and clarity its boughs negate.
So drives the idiot challenger
into pernicious gorse and weed
with what he deems intrepid move.
His tomb, he builds, with such a deed.
Beyond the gates, through corridors,
the throbbing breath of ancient walls
records each step he dares to take,
preemptively reseals their halls.
Till darkly in his vision dim
the heart of flame in pretense looms.
With brass to fit his sure demise,
he enters; air begins to bloom.
She waits for him--fleet-footed fate--
at back of each door in the cell.
Which portal ends his witless quest?
Which fiend will sound his deathly knell?
Tangles of angels, ocular spheres,
resplendent prophetess of glass,
screaming roundness, voiceless whispers,
bluing children, black grins amassed,
and on and on and on and on,
sepulchral succession of marvelous horror.
The curious drawn are ever shown
the endless parade of pomp and gore.
Who seeks to battle beasts and win
in this foul place meets endless hell,
and ill-fated indeed are all
who tarry here and fare not well.