Dewin's Last Poem

After the death of Dewrder,
At Cad Camlan,
Dewin,
His most trusted friend,
Fell into great sadness.

He had given his advice,
He had offered his knowledge,
But still,
None of this could prevent,
The King’s death.

Woe filled every ounce of him,
Making his chest hurt,
His heart ache,
His heart break.

When facing such a feeling,
Dewin could do nothing but,
Write.

He turned to parchment,
And leaned upon ink,
And instead of thinking,
Simply scrawled,
Scratched,
And set down on scroll,
His great pain.

He dubbed it to be,
His last poem,
For eternity would soon,
Be taking him too.

The poem,
Once finished,
Was wrapped up,
Around a rough,
Heavy,
Piece of wood.

It would do no good,
Sombre,
To dwell and mope upon,
And so,
Dewin journeyed,
To the lake of promises,
Where he did call out,
With great and mighty shout,
For the lady to appear.

She did,
And he spoke to her,
Told her,
Reading out loud,
The paper which,
Now held prisoner,
His emotional dark cloud.

And the lady wept,
Her tears dripped into the lake,
And caused the banks to burst,
Flooding the plains around.

She would not accept it,
For it would do no good.

And so,
Dewin journeyed,
To the tor standing high,
High above the water,
And there,
He met with the sisters,
Fortunate,
To live upon the isle,
And there,
He did call out,
With great and mighty shout,
For them to gather.

They did,
And he spoke to them,
Told them,
Reading out loud,
The paper which,
Now held close,
His emotions in heavy dose.

And the sisters wept,
Their tears dripped to the ground,
And drowned the apple tree,
That had once stood tall,
And proud.

They would not accept it,
For it would do no good.

Dewin was lost.

He fell to his knees,
Pleaded,
For it to be taken away,
And then came the Fae.

In their droves and hordes,
They assembled around,
And without a sound,
Each grabbed a piece of the scroll,
With such a hold,
With parchment folded,
They pulled,
And ripped,
Torn into pieces,
And each one kept,
One word each,
For they knew,
It would do no good,
And they would ease the pain,
If they could.

Dewin thanked them,
And they went on their way,
And until his last day,
He never wrote another poem again.