Maladies of Magnitude

Maladies of Magnitude

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As I looked yon village over, scents of jasmine, whiffs of clover,
wafted deftly, drifting over—over verdant hills so green.
Had I known the deadly danger that awaited ev’ry stranger.
As I was, a roving ranger—yearned for sights set so serene.

Why, then, did it feel unclean?

Yonder there, in deepest valley; dare I go, or dillydally?
Wonderment, my soul did rally—rallied ‘round my fears of dread.
Dammit, man!–my soul stood screaming–waiting here is not redeeming;
what I’d find there, so unseeming; unprepared was I, instead.

Townsfolk stood—eyes white, as dead.

Feelings of unease assailed me; what insanity now ailed me?
Had my sanity now failed me—failed me as it had before?
None within the village proper moved about, save one lone pauper.
“Come now, sir, see what's in store." With skin as black as aigremore;

arms reached out, blistered and sore…

As I stood there gasping, wheezing, it grew cold, I shivered, freezing;
there was nothing nice or pleasing in this vile Devil's den.
Tho' I sensed he longed to help me, I winced once, he flinched quite plainly.
When I uttered, “most ungainly…” eyes rolled back, he scratched his chin.

I'd been blinded by my sin.

On my bare skin, lesions fester—still I laugh; an insane jester.
Now I must but die and rest here—rest here in sad solitude.
Had I known what would befall me, would adventure e’er have called me?
Trap'd here now, disease has walled me; like the pauper whom I'd shooed.

Maladies of magnitude.

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