The Sorcerer And The Head

The Sorcerer And The Head



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

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 hungry cat.

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

“Speak to me, oh head, I command you!”
And the long dead eyes shoot 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 not prevent
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 had said.

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

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

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