Who knows what kind of fate we may have. Revenge is better served, than received. |
No few words can be said for Arnison Wake brought too soon to the grave by the madness of fate for it seems that poets suffer noblest in faith. His requiem bequeathed, to the abruptly deceased by his brides belief, in a murderer's deed. His demise the enigma of the truest sublime unable to solve and credulity defied for when the buried, unburied; there's no body to find. What reasons await, or in miracles create the horrifying fate of Arnison Wake. Indeed there were questions of the missing's last ends such the state and condition the casket was in and the remnant of scratches from someone's two hands. With proof so profound, there never a doubt instead of the way down, they were burrowing out. Sunlight declining many days soon would pass alibis inquired and suspicions amassed the guilty determined by the evidence they had. It appears they could trace, the dispatcher of hate and what had became of Arnison Wake. Arnison's death was at the hand of a friend a fellow poet whose name was Ferguson Wynn whose life had suddenly come to an end. It was there on the ground, on the outskirts of town his body lie bound, with no head to be found. So all would believe this happened by chance what infamy was suffered to circumstance events that irony could hardly withstand. Occasioned in strange, though twisted by fate the truth steered blame to Arnison Wake. When revisiting the coffin to check it again there Arnison Wake lied interred within and in his grasp the head of Ferguson Wynn. For we can't comprehend, what our maker intends so it seems that the dead, may return for revenge. |