From the Well of Fortune

On the Island Impass.

The Treasure Room lies bloodied and burgeon.

Its vine-draped walls derelict, bold, and crass.

Its gold beckoning to the soul’s desire.

Shimmering by daylight, through the cracks of the room’s steely husk.

The ground is dusted by the bones of the past, by those within Hell’s fire.

The air is humid, steely with musk.

The treasure lies in wake, no whispering screams of curses forsaken

Just the gleam of gold and the room’s repercussive prize.

And the crews of their ships, with an eager jolt, have their sins overladen.

Seduced by the Treasure Room’s fetching promise and its unworldly lies.

 Those who seek the chest beyond the door, of riches and glory.

A burden overwhelming, a chest too hard to carry.

The hulking door, hearty with the souls of its story.

The wailing victims—wrought with passion—lost to Death on his lonesome ferry.

That miserably wonderful room of fame and treasure.

And its famished appetite, flush with its irredeemable fee.

This room of promise and pleasure.

Shall haunt its inhabitants and all its claimants—less they toss away the key.

Photo by Dan Dennis on Unsplash