Caligostro's Illusion

From the tower's only window
High above the castle's gates
On a mountain's lofty peak.
Looking down upon the plains
Where Knights fight for favours
To the victor the feather.

She watches from the window
And waits at her leisure
A smile on her lips
As she gazes with pleasure,
The armoured men vying
To the victor her treasure.

On the back of her chair
Is a creature so white.
This is her familliar
That journeys by night.
It's eyes pierce dark air
In the silence of its flight.

It is her eyes
It is her ears
It hears all the lies
It tells her their fears
On it's wisdom relies
The control of the years.

The men they do battle
The crowd loudly cheer
When from their saddles
To the mud they are sent.
Their brains are all addled
And are bruised and spent.

For many a year the tourney is fought
And yet there is one to arrive on that day,
To win her feather most dearly bought.
The gloom that had settled was torn by a ray
That graced the knight and squire that sought
The prize of a feather from one so fey.

The light and the dark at opposite ends
Like the silence of death, all was still.
Each taking the measure, their weakness to rend
A shattering flash breaks the spell!
Fire flashing from hooves, one to send
To inevitable Oblivion and Hell!

Thunder and lightning and wind driving rain
Signaled the time for the conflict to begin.
All power of time and space converges in vain
To avert the apocalyse, to prevent the END!
As they met in the centre, God screamed in pain,
And there remained
A snowy white owl
That flew away.

From the tower's only window
High above the castle's gates
On a mountain's lofty peak.
Looking down upon the plains
Where Knights fight for favours
To the victor the feather.

copyright 2002 - Greyzone

The Psychosis

From the tower's only window
High above the castle's gates
On a mountain's lofty peak.
Looking down upon the plains
Where Knights fight for favours
To the victor the feather.

She watches from the window
And waits at her leisure
A smile on her lips
As she gazes with pleasure,
The armoured men dying
To the victor her treasure.

On the back of her chair
Is a creature so white.
This is her familliar
That journeys by night.
A hunter so cruel
To kill, a delight.

It is her eyes
It is her ears
It hears all the lies
It tells her their fears
On it's wisdom relies
The control of the years.

The men they do battle
And the mothers lament
When from their saddles
They are brutally rent.
Their brains are all addled
And are bloodied and bent.

For many a year the tourney is fought
As yet there is none to survive in one piece.
The price of her feather is most dearly bought,
Still there's no victor and she grows ill at ease.
Her beauty is fading, her snowy owl is naught,
Her lands have become vacant and consumed with disease.

Lonely from the tower's window
High above the castle's gates
On a mountain's lofty peak.
Looking down upon the plains
Where Knights fought for favours
To no victor the feather.

copyright 2002 - Greyzone