The Poet’s Jealous Brother

The Poet’s Jealous Brother

The poet sat beside his desk,
He knew the end was near,
He wanted to write one final poem,
For a friend he held so dear.
His brother watched with jealous eyes,
His heart was filled with spite,
He couldn’t stand the lovely words,
His brother loved to write.

He’d always been a jealous man,
And hated all his fame,
And every time his brother wrote,
It filled his heart with shame.
His brother purposely spilt the ink,
Across the precious page,
Which sent the faithful poet,
Into an almighty rage.

He didn’t know just what to do,
He didn’t know what to say,
The words he’d written from his heart,
Were washed in ink away.
His brother stood there laughing,
Without a trace of shame,
He’d ruined the final masterpiece,
And thought it was a game.

The poet’s heart was breaking,
His strength was slipping away,
They carried him onto his bed,
Where he would spend his final day.
He looked towards his brother,
His face was turning grey,
He promised on his deathbed,
His brother would pay one day.

And when the clock struck midnight,
The poet breathed his last,
His brother smiled and told himself,
The worst of it had passed.
But then the ink began to crawl,
Across the wooden floor,
It wrote, “You will pay,” upon the wall,
Beside the bedroom door.

The jealous brother screamed in fear,
And stumbled towards the door,
The ghost of his dead brother stood,
Beside the poet’s bed once more.
By daylight only one remained,
A corpse upon his bed,
The youngest brother, fearing for his life,
Had well and truly fled.