Magnif Corsaw,
A man of many titles;
This title gained
From painful sounds
Of screeching, rubbing metal.
He opens up his journal,
Writes a poem,
Shown thus:
“A withered, tattered tome this is –
“As is my soul and body now –
“But even more I feel the need
“To stain this awful parchment.
He looks upwards.
The horrific, painful color blue
Pervades his sight;
He cannot gaze much longer,
And averts his eyes to the ground.
“What I will do today
“Will be forever praised.
Behind him
In the grass
Lays the Alchemist,
Rubbing at his rough robes
And twisting his cap.
“I've heard those words
“A hundred times,
“And nothing's come
“Of the struggle.
“Would you like a taste?
The Alchemist holds out
A sparkling, purple bottle
Filled with fizzing, vile,
Yellow liquid
With the consistency
Of de-oxygenated
Blood.
Corsaw takes it quickly
And drinks a fairly
Grand dosage.
“Nothing seems to
“Come of yours, either,
“Alchemist.
The two both sigh in unison.
Corsaw rubs his beard,
Coaxes his brow to soften,
And, in a moment of realization,
Notices that
Nobody can see
The results of his
Subtle changes in appearance,
And begins relaxing his facial features
Once more.
The Alchemist quickly turns
From his vials.
“If you could describe yourself,
“Corsaw, as a color,
“Which would it be?
Magnif ponders a moment.
“Yellow, or maybe
“Green, depending on
“My mood.
“Interesting, interesting indeed...
