The ancient woman squinted at the fire,
one pale eye closed against the peated smoke.
One gnarled claw clasped tight a clouded crystal
raised up and shaking skyward as she spoke.
Her voice was cracked as rust, creaky as a door,
but echoed stentorian through the cave.
The cracked and fuming earth seemed to tremble
as did I hearing the prophecy she gave.
Prosperity and misery twin inked.
Long life, but not for you that much is plain.
Set to before the new moon blots the page
and thoughts become too clouded by the pain.
Perish then in agony, but to rest.
A meager work you leave, but twas your best.
Come now, I in panic begged the seer,
There must be some way to avoid this fate.
She breathed in fumes, and cocked her head to hear
the spirits, raised one crooked finger, Wait.
From her table she fetched a silver knife,
and cackling said, Yes. End now your life.
I paid her then and left and headed home,
the fortune given weighing on my soul.
I’ve just two weeks now to begin my tome.
My fate is truly out of my control.
My life is shortly destined for the loam.
So to my art I lend my spirit whole.
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