Who denies the Fate his prize caught eyes? Those
Blue set beauties he did hew from a corpse
Devoid of sight? Such a man might well hose
Down the toes of a giant, he knows hopes
Do dwindle fast, that fate has the last laugh
Amongst the living men; unforgiving
Are his cruel eyes, upon a stool hath
He ever been, fishing for mortal string
To replace his failing sight, and he does
Not take kindly to those kingly souls who
Stand between his immortal hands. But cause
Enough you might have to right a wrong: flew
To her sight without a thought for safety.
Yet beware, the matters truly weighty
Upon the Stool, (c) Luke Bennette, June 2012
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