Fingers press’d deep to the moments track;
creas’d in doubt, the well worn page held close
to the squinting eye, senses wrack’d.
Darkness at the strings demise hosts
your fear Olo; three yards, or two twitched
to signal here to howling gnolls’ den?
Halted, silent, the warriors breath now hitched
to th’ yarns breadth: two indeed, then
what? Lead saws parchment, wall carvings
flick ensorceled light to startled eye,
the thief cannot rub away the gnawing
doubt some turn or grade has gone awry
along the page. Slow this track to fine treasure
by desperate, silent means and bloody measures.
Advertisement
