I look at you

The glow of the sun casting shadows around us

But we can not pull ourselves away

The sun

Is what they tell us it is

It's beautiful

Far better than what we onced dreamed

As we huddled in our kingdom

Far beneath the ground

The curse has been lifted

And with it our hopes

Can monsters and humans

Lived together again

I think so

As I look over the mountain and spot the kid

Talking with the king

They look over and give a wave

Eliciting a smile from me

Maybe our time for peace has come

As it seems our UnderTale is done

You proffered three coppers,

your open hand an innocent offer

to trade coin for a story

from a jester in mourning.

Caught him at a fine time,

between a lie and a sunset's sky

diffusing into night,

tempering the land's hot plight,

and the words he kept quiet

like bones locked in a chest.

His dried lips cracked and bled,

as he told you a story again;

one you had not heard before,

while you rested,

your hand upon your head.

While the sky continued to creep

into that quiet melancholy

in which the world turns to sleep.

He told of a nymph's handkerchief

found bloodied on soiled ground,

used to wipe the blood from a sword,

that slew a whole army and horde.

And beside the cloth there was

a body, ivory and twitching,

as his wounds failed to clot.

His eyes quivered and sought

resolution in the dark dawn

of a battle long fought, and lost.

The jester, then, 

did something rather unlike him;

used the word I to describe

how he knelt beside the body

as it attempted to die.

And when it came time

to recite the man's final words in rhyme,

the tired jester closed his eyes,

and whispered under a grin sly,

Will you watch her, tonight?

With a jingle of his hat,

he nodded to the far off distance,

of a forest resting in the twilight yawning,

to a curious figure like silver

glittering beneath a dark river.

A maiden's silhouette lingered on the edge,

then ebbed and swayed,

slinking to the sage of her domain,

where she used to sing,

but now weeps, wails, and screams.

For her mercenary, despite solemn swears,

never returned to her embrace.

So now she lingers there,

watching, waiting for his tell-tale trace.

It will perhaps never come,

for his ghost slipped and escaped

far, far from this realm,

unlike hers, bound to the gnarled ground.

For that is the story,

the jester concludes,

as her figure slips back into the gloom,

and your head dips, nods, and swoons,

of how the nymph became

the banshee of Grim Lake.

In an ancient era,

A sword was drawn,

From my bosom,

Towards the dawn,

In years gone by,

I wept with blood,

For little boys,

And graves of mud

In prewar days,

I saw the signs,

Dug the shelters,

Dodged the mines,

In troubled times,

That is, today,

I hear the cry,

"Away, Away,"

(But honey, you stay.)

Pieces of me I've neglected

Fall silently into peaceful order.

I breathe a sigh of relief, 

Step off the plane, 

And smile at the vineyards,

The cobbled streets, 

The laughing, olive-skinned people.

I can smell the salty tint in the air,

Feel the pulse of the day radiating up.

Baking bread, fresh vegetables,

Wine, cheese, and ouzo surround me.

I drink deeply 

And feel the knots

In my back

Slowly

disappearing