5# Untitled

Far to the north, the land of snow,
there lived a man, you ought to know.
His name meant Fist, his pride was great,
the appetite for knowledge, he could not sate.
Spirits, he chained, within his dark tower,
magicks, he wove, for ever greater power.

A comrade there was, though he knew it not,
The power once held, was all he sought.
Although his power, once unbroken,
had willingly reduced to but a token,
his enemies fled, his years run long,
he had no reason for his old song.
Yet songs old notes still ran high,
and his old habits would not die,
indeed his role was not yet played,
within this story that I have made.

The chains of men must reside,
within the knowledge that we hide.
If but a little that we know,
then but a little that we will go...