The Sorcerer And The Head

The Sorcerer And The Head


Beneath shadowy spires and golden domes,
within a labyrinth of dust-ridden streets,
a ghostly stillness runs before dawn,
like an evil eye that never sleeps.

As silent as the ghosts of murdered men,
as quiet as the scurrying of a rat,
a lean man in worn velvet sits
upon a silken couch like a great cat.

Sipping wine from a gem-studded goblet,
every finger glittering with fine jewels,
the sorcerer looks upon his most prized possession,
a severed head floating within a glass pool.

“Speak to me, oh head, I command it!”
And the long dead eyes shot open wide,
glowing with a fiendish hatred
they fell upon the sorcerer and cried:

“Your doom hounds you like a blind dog.
In due time you will be attacked.
With all your powers you can’t prevent
the poison in your cup, or daggers at your back.”

The sorcerer angrily threw down his goblet
and glared at the hideous head;
but its milk-white eyes and yellowed teeth
appeared happy with what it said.

The magician stormed from his lair,
the prophecy burned into his brain,
but the King’s guards waited outside
and quickly threw him into chains.

They hacked off his head as ordered
before he could utter a spell
humbled and humiliated
the sorcerer trembled and fell.

Somewhere water is slowly dripping
into a pool full of magic and pride
a severed head floats there happily
its revenge finally satisfied.