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Tales from the Mist

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Bloodstone

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Goddess of the Mist

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She is cursed to always crave

master to the slave

bloodstone to the master

cradle to the grave

 

He guards his wicked treasure

twilight to the dawn

with a selfishness so absolute

sharing with no one

 

A drop or two won’t satiate

gratify

alleviate

 

It leaves her empty, unfulfilled

left to wonder moonlit fields

barren plains of a love gone wrong

a mere shadow of feelings, once so strong

desiring attention of a certain kind

left to search but never find

 

A price to pay – a guide to take her there

to his warmth

his wild lair

 

The path is tangled, craggy and steep;

the mountains are high and the rivers deep

Frigid winds carry snow that blinds her eyes

still, she senses reward, fortune, her prize

 

It is with a relief so pure, so humble, so sweet

when he is awakened from his sleep

and then he gives her what she craves:

Bloodstone to the master

cradle to the grave

 

You fill my cup…

forever your slave

 

 

 

poem © Goddess of the Mist 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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