I am writing a short story for a collection called "The Bloody Gavel". As I rose this morning to get to work on the piece, it seemed I was channeling the darkness and grit of the "master of mystery and macabre"~ Edgar Allan Poe himself. I decided that the story should be in four parts, each woven from a verse of poetry...here is the poem I wrote:
The Bloody Gavel
By Ian Hall
“It matters not, where you lay your bones,
Or the compass direction of travel.
For the fate was set, in paper and stone
At the strike of the bloody gavel.”
“Revenge is a route that’s easy begun
But the plot takes time to unravel
But man and his fate are fused into one
At the strike of the bloody gavel.”
“When unity dies in a gang of lies
Conspirators quibble and cavil
But trickery’s sting will show in the eyes
At the strike of the bloody gavel.”
“We never hear death, or the sound of his breath
Or the crunch of his feet in the gravel.
But the Reaper will reap, like a ghostly Macbeth
At the strike of the bloody gavel.”
“It matters not, where you lay your bones,
Or the compass direction of travel.
For the fate was set, in paper and stone
At the strike of the bloody gavel.”
“Revenge is a route that’s easy begun
But the plot takes time to unravel
But man and his fate are fused into one
At the strike of the bloody gavel.”
“When unity dies in a gang of lies
Conspirators quibble and cavil
But trickery’s sting will show in the eyes
At the strike of the bloody gavel.”
“We never hear death, or the sound of his breath
Or the crunch of his feet in the gravel.
But the Reaper will reap, like a ghostly Macbeth
At the strike of the bloody gavel.”
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