Autumn's eve, tinting leaves, the breeze creates a gentle hiss,
A sun shining bright, wooded air
Would meet to kiss, rebirthing night.
A hunter trawled through forest sprawled,
it flowed and rose before him,
With him came prose he must
prepose the winter snows that awaited,
The winter snows, would end his hunt,
and so off he set with a subtle grunt,
To complete his latest autumn hunt,
a stunt raught with err.
A fortnight prior, the hunter slept in a spire, a vision came as he did tire,
A shimmering gold figure, whose shape
bent and flickered,
With haunting words it smiled and
"On a jaunt to forest haunts, not an
arrow shall be nocked--
--lest all effort be for naught."
The hunter gave the lot no thought,
An archer, he is, a prophet, he is not,
And so was his steed set off on a trot--
"--Lest all effort be for naught."
A hare was eyed, time now nigh, prey and predator had arrived,
Hunter prepping a bow draw, as hare
gingerly awed and gnawed,
As hare gnawed, a warning walked, out
to the hunter's mind,
Reminding him, to his chagrin--
"Not an arrow shall be nocked," inside his mind it ticked and tocked,
Words flicking like hands on clocks, the
ticking clock, he cleared with knocks,
And so he returned to his stalk, but once
an arrow then did nock--
--Alas, all effort was for naught.
The ground caved in, his head spins, as his punishment begins,
Take from the forest, and the forest
Our hunter grasped, as he fell to black,
his dream was no dream, but real life,
He strifed over omens, regret that stung
like a knife,
But descent had already begun, with
darkness endlessly growing rife.
He had spent his whole life gloating,
now he felt as though he's floating,
floating deep to an abyss,--
Nay, not safety, nay, much darker, nay,
unnatural-- nay, remiss.
Body meets tension, and blood meets a flood,
A splash, and a crash, as the hunter fell
with a thud,
He had berthed on a river, clothing and
blood curdled with mud.
Awoken from slumber, skull pounding like thunder, his mind felt asunder,
Rolling over a flower, he climbed
from the river,
Perverse cold forcing a shiver, as he
looked to the sky, and began to quiver,
Onyx above, with a moon shining three, scouting around, he shan't find many a tree,
Or any sign that from this hell, he'll be
--Lest he notice the shimmer,
approaching with speed.
The shimmer approached, the hunter recognized he,
The shape from the vision, that whom
"I see that my warning, thou did not heed, now thou must travel, if thou wished to leave,"
The words strengthened the thunder
inside the head of our hunter,
But then he spoke, with an intrigue of
"Where must I go, with my head pounding like thunder, and self so asunder?"
The shimmer glared, its gilded eyes
flared, freezing the hunter like snares,
"Voyage to the Druid, speak to thee, ask for relief, and thou shall be free, but when the deal has ended, have not a spare thought--
--Lest all effort be for naught."
And so the hunter travelled endless night,
Bulbous purple pods glowing on the
ground, providing light,
As giggles from around echoed, causing
Our archer saw faeries, goblins and elves, hiding in the shadows, deep they'd delve,
Child's fairytales, nay, did not match
He felt as if in his own mind he'd lost
In the so unknown, yet familiar realm.
At last up ahead he saw a light, the shine of a lantern, a beacon in the night,
Ahead lie a hut, a small abode, he set for the door and trekked the road,
He made it to the home, hoping for
He grabbed the doorknocker, adorned
with a buck, and rapped three times,--
--"My door you've struck, and summoned me, state your name, or propose a plea."
A frazzled voice from the other side, so
quickly, the hunter knew he had little
His thoughts, a clogged drain, but finally
--"I, the hunter, wish to speak to the
Inside the shack, the two had talked, after the knocked door was locked,
The hunter had the holder chalked, the
Druid she was, and so he hawked,
Asking, pleading, and begging for help,
until she finally talked,
"I can read your future, boy, I'll call upon my Tarot, but in exchange, when comes the First of Snows, you must not lie low."
The hunter was perplexed, reluctantly
he agreed not to cower,
The Druid then laid out all three,--
--The Fool, Eight Swords, The Tower.
"Before I explain the Tarot to you, I must ask a question too,"
The Druid spoke with wretched ardor,
But as she hissed, our hunter had to
"Do you know, the shimmering glow? It's the one who shares your fate,
But beware its trap, within a snap,--
--You could both open the gate."
The Tarots meant only one thing each, Naive, Hopeless, Doomed,
Shocked by landing on The Tower
locked the hunter into gloom,
Then the Druid had one last warning,
a mourning that froze the room,
"You will find that Tower, boy, and you must hold our deal,
Resort to zeal, and turn your heel,--
--And The Tower will be your tomb."
The hunter tripped and left the Druid, rushing back on trail,
His spirit felt as though a fawn, frail,
and his path like a train, on rails,
But he knew as the wind did gale, and
freezing rain began to hail,--
--Traveling the veil, he mustn't fail.
Then he sauntered off to wander, not a stretch away, he sensed a haunter,
He saw a damsel, through rain's silky
Looming, deep within the black, a
vermin frame which flowed as glass,--
--To persist, to leave, that which
he must pass.
A serpent, it slithered, our hunter shivered,
A feminine side revealed, as it got closer,
a familiar poseur,
Our hunter had to steel,
But as the ghastly creature neared,
his composure wept with yield.
Half-snake, half-woman, it spoke soft and slow,
"You're brave to show, you're weak here,
useless I'd say-- the Tarot told, I heard, I
As it spoke, its tail flickered, eyes alight
with rosette glimmer,--
--Our hunter knew, he'd met a
This snake, it claimed it was part of the hunter,
Part of the hunter, surely a blunder, he
was no viper,
But the snake became hyper, its voice
high like the shrill of a piper,
"I know you and you know me, but your feeble mind, it cannot see!
I would say to look within, but you're
powerless, you couldn't even begin!"
The snake had spoke with a giggle and a
grin, and quickly turned sour,--
--"My name is not snake, please, call
Flower ended up a consort, nary a slithering foe to thwart,
They'd walk and they'd chatter,
The soothing rain's patter, appended by
small creatures scatter,
But before long, Flower had stopped,
with something the matter,
"A mirage, I've sensed, do you feel it, the air ever so dense?"
The thought forced the hunter to tense,
he felt the air, ever so dense indeed,
But Flower he could read, her face
screamed with plead,
"The Tower, it's here. The one from the Tarot,"
Flower spoke slow, speech reaching a
"I can bring the Tower, it will use all of
But you must keep your deal, you
Within you will always be a friendly
Her tail flicked, she smiled, "Close your eyes, archer," and so our hunter did,
Alas, when he opened his lids, his only
ally was rid,--
--A Flower replaced, by a tower.
He took a moment to reflect, upon the roads that he had trekked,
The warm river, the safest he'd felt,
before he was shook by a jolting, cold
The druid, the scholar of fate, the
friendly mystery from whom he hid,
Yet Flower, the extension of him, a
snake he'd judged and wished he'd
All assistance lost, warmth had turned to frost, as he looked to the tower, he did fraught, but he must begin,--
--Lest all effort be for naught.
He entered the spire, and his soul felt dire,
As he seeked up to see stairs seemingly
spun by a spider,
The climb felt wholly bleak, but he
summited the peak,
To the top suite he'd sneak, and look in with a peek,
To see a familiar physique, shimmering
As he scouted the room, lost in ornate
His legs felt swiftly weak, a lavish floor
--And this piqued the figure,
who began to speak.
"Thou hast found the Tower, the Druid, and the Flower. Yet the taste, it still seems sour?
Worry not my hunter, ye need not scour,
your hunt has reached its final hour."
As peril did flow, our hunter did know,
and reached for his sidearm,
His trusted bow.
"Sheathe thy fury, and do not worry, just enjoy my show,
Set down thy bow, and peer the window,
But surely, thou already knows--
--Thou hast reached the First of
The light had lingered into night, soil stifled by ivory plight,
As the hunter twisted back, he heard a
The figure had snapped, and the walls,
Then they were out in the sleet, the
frigid air a silky sheet,
The indigo sky danced like a marionette
A violet aurora, sliced through like a
Iris flowers in the wind, shuddering
with a shiver.
"Thou art getting what thou desired, dear hunter,
Or doth thou wish to wait and wither?"
The voice of the shimmer, it spoke with
As if the snow had forced it to a shrill,
The hunter felt a thrill, as in a glance,
the shimmer's intentions would spill
from its stance,
"Thou knew this would come, I know thou hast great skill,
Alas, thou art a hunter, now come
for the ****."
The hunter drew his bow, and an arrow he nocked,
He could feel his heart ticking, counting
down like a clock,
The shimmer turned pink and purple,
with eyes black, like a portal.
"I never craved to hurt thou, yet thou broke thy own law,"
The shimmer had said, but yet it stood
still in awe,
The hunter thought he was ready, he
locked on, then draw,--
--Then he felt a pain, a thrash, and
his heart began to thaw.
He looked down and saw crimson, a **** let loose velvet ribbon,
He fell back to the snow, and as he
Up stepped a purple glow, to look at the
Their eyes met, and at last, true nature would show,
The hunter's woe, he'd finally know,--
--Was the furthest thing from a foe.
Behind the figure a gateway, a gateway of silver,
Then the figure turned grey, his
shimmering grew dimmer,
Defeat still boiled in the heart of the
It was met with ease, and the two
would melt and simmer,
"Our bond is obvious, certainly, dear hunter, just as our dreams melt in snow,--
--My heart ignites, infernally."
It was then the hunter noticed the arrow,
His shot had hit, but the shimmer shook
it off, unevenly harrowed,
Then the hunter's vision narrowed,
and he realized his last arrow, he'd split,
"I didn't want thy death, or mine along with it,"
It spoke as if for two, and open the gate
"We're connected, me and you, I need
not be blunt,
I loathe to see the river dry, alas, there's
an end to every flow,
But blood in the snow, under a
--Befit to end our hunt."