IT was a fever-dream; I lay
Awake, as in the broad bright day,
But faint and worn I drew my breath
Like those who wait for coming death;
Fomenting stink the rats in hay
Bit through silk to skin dank and grey
Swarming around the numbered fighter.
Would I ever see the day dawn brighter;
Burst into day from fetid burrow
To pierce them through with gods own arrow
Soon with the numbers mercy's fewer;
Did we the vermin on willow skewer.
And now in fading health the night
Draws close; that we pray it might
But be distanced and only seem
That is was all just a curse'ed fever dream.
I owe the first verse to Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton, but the rest (as you can tell by the drop in quality) is all mine :)
ReplyDeleteTruly a masterpiece worthy of the flamboyant Arowe.
ReplyDeleteI can just picture him, elegantly tossing his hair in the moonlight all moody and melodramatic.
I think Arowe is more more Clary than Byron, but he has his moments!
ReplyDeleteI might write a lyric to the tune of "I Am What I Am" so Rifkin can sing it to inspire Arowe!