by Nick Gisburne
The sick, Unseelie specimens, in jars,
Convulse as they are haunted by the heat.
Beyond the glass, behind corroded bars,
The wizard moans, his misery complete.
The spells he cast, the sorcery he shaped,
To rescue Fey infantas from their fate,
Begat these worthless, rancid peasants, scraped
From streets and sewers; none are good or great.
The king will not reward his deeds today.
No banners, pennants, kites or flags will fly.
His daughters, who the warlock stole to slay,
Were gone before a sunrise broke the sky.
He taps the jars, tormenting those he took,
And seasons them for flavour as they cook.
