Of Dungeons and Dragons

Majestic and wealthy, the heroes return,
yet all shy away, from their saviors they turn.

Their pain and their trials no mere mortal could bear,
emerging as youths – sweet, golden and fair.

Clad in cold flames, braved the soul of the earth,
swords forged anew, deities given birth.

The son of a plowman abandoned his yoke,
joined by a tailor of whom much was spoke.

A poor tavernmistress resigned to her fate,
a disciplined cleric with smooth balding pate.

Four brought together from lost, far-flung lands,
all with the stains of bloodshed on their hands.

Their pasts were no secret from those whom they saved,
traveled and labored and triumphed and slaved.

None would grant them but shreds of respect,
as all were too cautious, their words circumspect.

Yet there was no threat which ever arose,
they could not dispatch with deft graceful blows.

The great witch of the badlands was soon overthrown,
a herd of cruel centaurs, mighty and roan.

Each challenge defeated, their might did but grow,
‘till at last away these warriors did go.

The barmaid a bladesmith had slowly become,
the tailor a ranger too fond of his rum.

The cleric to thieving ways had succumbed,
and the son of the plowman, his lute he strummed.

Defeated the dragon of harsh northern climbs,
forever sung praises in bold bardic rhymes.

Venture successful, yet forests are burning,
trees lie uprooted, the dark earth is churning.

These angels destruction have brought in their wake,
so many have suffered for victory’s sake.

Though through their ordeals they did greatly transform,
‘twas not nearly enough to weather the storm.

Prideful young cherubs to exile are sent,
to reflect, reconvene and to sadly repent.

On the terrible end their actions have brought,
legacy of bloodshed that shan’t be forgot.

That foolish game they attempted to play,
heroics have no place in this age and day.