PW: Oct. 21 (Of Wsgria)

His name they speak in hushèd tones,

His tales are left in dusted tomes.

A thousand men who would not dare,

A thousand deaths- not one he’ll spare,

 

Not children small nor women fair,

For for their lives he does not care.

A tangled plait of confliction

Surrounding truth’s jurisdiction.

 

Perhaps no more than a mere tale,

But veracity is a veil.

To ask why he deigns to defile,

Is a question far too fragile:

 

You may construe a halfèd sooth,

Or even worse the wretched truth.

Mortal men may have goal or cause,

But in killing he takes no pause.

 

No heart nor soul, nor humane bone,

He’s the smell of fetid brim-stone.

For all of this, the message follows:

If you see a smile, wide and hollow,

 

If you hear dark words, detached, eerie,

Dust and smoke that’s hot and dreary,

If these fit to one mirthless man,

You’re wise to flee, fast as you can.

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