The Bitter End

The Bitter End

By Brandon Palzkill

Once, in winter’s deathly cold, as this chilling tale is told,

a man of great, ill-gotten fortune traveled on his way.

He strode about, without a care, while frost thickened the winter air,

and in his mind, he counted all his newly-stolen pay.

He, a clever charlatan, had cheated all the village men,

who worked and slaved, but all for naught, once he had played his part.

He lured them in with tricks and lies, they couldn’t see through his disguise,

they had no chance, for he was truly master of his art.

And so, from town to town, he went, collecting people’s money, spent

on fancy trinkets, guaranteed to ease their arduous lots.

And once he’d taken all he could, he’d decide the time was good,

to move on to the next town, quickly, lest he should be caught.

So then one biting night, he left, completing his most recent theft,

and stole away down the old road, straight through the vacant woods.

Excitement sped him on his course, while he ran, without remorse,

for all the former owners of his wrongly taken goods.

A mile, here, a mile, there; he drank in all the frozen air,

delighted by his nerve and boasting his prodigious skill,

so the swindler moved along, unconcerned with those, he wronged,

bathing in the ecstasy of his most recent thrill.

But soon, elation had declined, with the glow of lights, behind,

all too quickly, mobs of angry villagers caught wise.

If he met them, once again, they would surely do him in,

angry words of retribution burned within their cries.

The man rushed off behind a tree; a jagged branch had gashed his knee,

his blood did flow, but froze from winter’s unforgiving cold,

And though he wept, he held his tongue, in hopes of being found by none,

that he might escape the vicious judgment, to be doled.

The raging crowd had moved ahead, to find the man and make him dead,

however, they did missed him, hiding in the trees, behind.

And as he watched their torches fade, a nimble getaway, he made,

within the trees, some hidden place no villagers would find.

His wounded knee had left him gimp, and so across the snow, he limped,

his heart was pounding, racing, almost threatening to seize.

He knew he couldn’t slow down, then, or they might find him, once again,

and hurriedly he kept on racing, through the snowy trees.

Before too long, he had to pause; he feared he must have gotten lost,

for everywhere he looked, he only noticed trees and snow.

He tried to find the path he’d forged, but winds had made his trail no more,

and all alone, he struggled, trying to find the way to go.

As hours passed, he roamed around, searching for some sight or sound

of any warmth or shelter which would shield him for the night.

Excitement surging through his veins had since dried up and none remained,

replaced by bitter agony and overwhelming fright.

And as his legs were getting numb, he knew that, soon, he would succumb,

to eternal slumber caused by winter’s harmful bite,

just then, the trees began to clear, an empty patch came drawing near,

and in the center, he did swear that he could see a light.

Thoughtlessly, he moved along, to reach the light or else be gone,

a mindless moth, dancing toward a tantalizing flame.

He hurried on, as though possessed, and it was anybody’s guess,

how he could move so speedily, with wounds that made him lame.

The eerie glow, he’d clearly seen, shimmering in emerald green,

called to him, a long-lost lover, longing to be reached.

He crossed the ground to meet the call, but it was never ground, at all,

but a frozen lake, what’s ice was nearly to be breached.

He bounded forward, desperately, and in his fervor, couldn’t see

the splintered ice, about to break and sweep him down below,

But once he had become aware, no light was really glowing there,

too late, he felt the crumbling shards disperse beneath his toes.

Before he might begin to act, he sank downward, beneath the cracks,

plunging through the icy waters of the hidden lake.

Instantly, he lost his breath, deluged by this certain death;

disorienting stabs of cold were more than he could take.

He swam, he clawed, he thrashed and climbed, desperate to get out on time,

lest he meet his vicious end, deep within the drink.

Yet his weak and frozen arms, failed to pull him out of harm,

the cold had dulled his senses, it was hard for him to think.

As the end had ventured near, the freezing, drowning did hear,

the crunch of tiny footsteps walking toward his watery grave.

He looked out and, to his surprise, a child stood before his eyes,

his hope renewed, he cried out, that the man might still be saved.

“Little boy,” the man did chatter, “soon, my life will be in tatters,

please don’t leave me here, to suffer my horrific fate.”

The little boy just shook his head, morosely, right before he said,

“I’m sorry, sir, there’s no help left for you, it’s far too late.”

The wading man exclaimed, “but why? It cannot be my time to die.

Won’t you show some mercy; don’t you have it in your heart?”

The boy just laughed, a frightening sound, “I have no heart that can be found,”

I’m merely spirit, lost; alone to wander ‘round these parts.”

“You’ve lived your life, so full of greed, hurting people with your deeds,

decent folk, whom you had bilked; too many to be named.

My father was among the crowd, a farmer in the fields he plowed,

a man of simple means, we’d struggled long before you came.”

“You’d tricked him out of all we had, and that’s when everything went bad,

my father, proud man as he was, would drink away his pain.

My mother tried to help him mend, remind him of the man, he’d been,

yet all the efforts she put forth did prove to be in vain.”

“Alone, her heart had been broken, never to be whole again,

and she, herself, would soon be lost in depths of great despair.

It mattered not that winter’s chill, had gone and made me deathly ill,

while I laid, sick and dying, she’d been unable to care.”

“And I did die, and so did she, though she crossed over, but for me,

I was left behind, a ghost, consumed with anguished rage

Aimless, I’d become, but then I realized I could take revenge,

your death, my retribution, would become a war I’d wage.”

“And so I brought you, with my light, to see you die on this cold night,

From there, perhaps, I’ll finally rest and cross over, myself.

But you, the man I most detest, you’ll die and you will never rest,

haunted by the consequences of your stolen wealth.”

Finally the man had learned, though far too late to make a turn,

and hope to find redemption in this angry specter’s eyes.

For soon, he became cold, within, and everything began to dim,

he drifted off to sleep, his heart had stopped and he did die.

The child watched with twisted glee, knowing he was finally free

from the torment that had tied him to the mortal plane.

In a flash of green, he’d gone, no more resigned to linger on,

but to finally fade beyond the reach of all his pain.

An as he left, the man sank down, to the bottom, hitting ground,

his purse of tainted gold exploded; scattered, there and here.

Above, the broken surface froze, entombed the recent corpse below,

lost to those who’d wished him ill; not to reappear.

The warmth of summer came again, and one day, lazing fishermen

recovered bones of human-kind while casting for a bite,

they realized that it must be he, but that garnered no sympathy,

from those, whom he claimed his wealth, before he left, that night.

Had the man not gone and done any harm to anyone,

things would have been different and they surely would have cared.

But then the specter wouldn’t be, ‘cause he might not have died, you see,

and had this man shown decency, then he could have been spared.

But it doesn’t do to dwell on all those things we can’t foretell,

the “should-have’s”, “could-have’s”, “would-have’s”, and most certainly “what-if’s”,

because that man had played his games, the end would always be the same,

he cast his own misguided soul down off the rocky cliffs.

Learn, good people, from his flaws, and never, ever break the law,

for laws are governed far beyond the justice we embrace.

Forces work, beyond our ken, who wait for our misdeeds, and then,

it’s their condemning judgment that we’re sorely left to face.