A weary beast'd plume among shadows grow, Crawling forth from frozen moonlit glow, Cometh thee Amarok; king of misty throne, All paw, and thrift, and lucid bone. He dwell, he dwell, the beastly crux Under crystal skies; wandered flux, Muddy kept is his stride – a pretty hue, Grip with teeth, pearlescent – lest true. With mouthful of stars, he stride blackish through, A gardened floor, littered wilt; leaves askew, O' Amarok of fable, he gravely breathes, The twisted soul of broken trees. Petty prey of his do listless roam, Fatherless squalls of dank-lit home, His gaze a pearl among thicket fern, Mighty smile, he slip, into lusty turn. A Beast of plenty, he live of three, Lank souls that passed the reddened sea, Alas my wit, hast left me still, When gaze I do, on wicked will. Of counting stars, his hobby sing, The graceful ward, the fearsome King, Altered grace, he slew all known, Those that stray into his dank-lit home. Amarok know, be him his name, Fearless those who prod his fame, Wander not into bracken'd copse, He slink, and smell, as broken fox. Bite will he, and rend apart, A shoddy traveller, of sickened heart, Careless be, and dead you will, The Amarok preys, with fiendish swill.
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011