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In fields of barley, in fields of Rye,
As swift North wind on leaves of trees,
An old man on his stony pillow doth lie,
By light of moon and strides by day.
This aged sage has wisdom wise,
Yet his doom drives him to always
abandon hamlet and familial ties,
To wander, as one lost for all his days.
His tale is long, for truly it has,
For countless millenia lasted,
His soles have strode through mountain pass,
From greenest slopes to wastes blasted.
Yet tho is would indeed take,
Years of men his tale to tell,
Yet good forewarning it would make,
As clear as day or warning bell.
While yet in his impetuous youth,
He was a reckless, drunkard lad,
His speech, while drunk, was most uncouth,
And in his drunken stupor seemed mad.
Now there was a young man he saw that night,
The lad bumped into the young man'
Then in his rage killed the young man in a fight,
Then seeing the deed done, away like a shot he ran.
But this drunk lad certainly did not realise,
That this mans father was greater than kings of Earth,
This powerful man was anciently wise,
For indeed he was Father time himself.
When He heard the news his only son was dead,
In the time of mortals for years he wept,
IN revenge only could his hates appetite be fed,
His deepest thought along dark paths did trek.
He thought and thought, and he did deem,
One doom meet to weave in the killers tapestry,
He announced his sentance to the man in his dream,
And thus said this grief stricken father to he:
"Thou baseborn mortal,slayer of my son,
Unworthy to live among the lowest beasts,
To make you pay for what you have done,
To wander the earth, ne'er to taste Deaths sweet release."
10 decades after this curse was cast,
The man had aged accordingly,
Yet as his kin beyond the river had passed.
Yet he remained, to pay his sentances' fee.
And still he strides as a restless soul,
And paces the cell of his earthly prison,
The bars of this cell indomitable and cold,
Never to break till the Earth itself is gone.
This is my first attempt at my own kind of poem that isnt based on any fiction I have read or know of. Please, any comments would be most welcome, and excuse any typos or grammar errors.
Thanks
Mephiston.
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"This is the hour of the Shire-folk, when they arise from their quiet fields to shake the towers and counsels of the Great. Who of all the Wise could have foreseen it? Or, if they are wise, why should they expect to know it, until the hour has struck? "
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). It's an interesting way to tell a complete story in form of a poem. Good job! 
