Seven candles,
thick and high,
melt from black
to the red inside.
Incense burns
with the scent of sage,
its smoke whirls high
above the page
of the sacred book
stained with age
written by
a long-dead mage.
She taught me how
to chant the spell
which traps the ogre
in its cell
of blessed rock
and cursed stone
guarded by
a withered crone
who saw the birth
of humankind
and for that sin
was rendered blind.
Should the creature
be set free
to wander the world
in fiendish glee,
evil would feed
with jagged teeth
on mortal flesh,
tender and sweet.
All that's good
would sink below
to prowl in shadows,
to seek the foe
which must be bound
for eternity.
I know the duty
which falls to me
means that I
shall never be free.
I must wait
forever alone
in a chamber
beside the crone.
I must make
the incense burn,
the candles glow,
the pages turn.
I'm the jailer
of evil and rage,
until a fool seeks
the skill of a mage.