A Poem of Sorts

Let me begin this post by saying, I am not a poet.
I often wish I was. It could enhance the charm and depth of my stories a hundred fold. It could add suspense and mystery. It could pose as riddles and puzzles for the reader to decipher.
But you have to know how to write it, and sadly, I do not.
However, this has not stopped me from trying (unfortunately for you, dear reader).
So, without further ado, I give you a very random poem written when I was feeling rather melancholy:
(sorry for the lame name!)


The Castle Rot


Quiet days pass in these lonely halls,
And the restless maiden longs to see,
What wonders hide beyond the crumbling walls,
Of the barren castle by the sea.


Upon many empty towers hang,
The scarlet flag, the royal crest,
And the walls, from where the clear trumpets sang,
Grow worn from her footsteps of unrest.


The great rooms with floors of glass and gold,
Filled with treasures of splendour and might,
Now remain nothing but dust to behold,
And lay in shadows, devoid of light.


The tapestries each, bearing a tale,
Begin to darken and fade to grey,
With each touch of the maiden's fingers, pale,
As she wanders the halls, going her way.


The song she sings is sad and sweet,
Recalling the drums before the war,
The tears, farewells, then the marching of feet,
Of soldiers who left for distant shores.

Long years passed and when they ne'er returned,
All but she rose, to search for the lost,
And though to join them in their search, she yearned,
They gave her a task, of greatest cost.

A key of gold, to their castle, dear,

They entrusted to the maiden, fair,

T'was this same gold key, she would keep near,

Until they brought the soldiers back there.

But with the key did come a curse, dark,

Binding the maiden to her fair youth,

Never would wrinkle of age, her face mark,

Never could she leave, without the truth.

They never came home, and still, do not,

Each passing day steals a memory,

Of the maiden, young, in the Castle Rot,

Where, likely, she'll wander eternally.