Poetry Blue Fortress Over Yonder

Demorticue

Spazmatism
Forever shall simple beings ponder on the blue fortress over yonder,
So long has it stood there, yet no soul has claimed heir,
Perhaps a city underground? Maybe a treasure no hunter has found?

Only the man knows of this truth.
Only the man seems to be a sleuth.
No matter what you ask, he responds in a daze,
The meaning of his rambles remain in haze.
He seems to hide its contents like a child, yet his manner is not so mild.

Can one be too sure of his problem's start? Or is it really to be kept in his heart?
Some may say it's a pain, but most say he lies for gain.
Does he like it so, or would he respond with a crazed "No!"
He often speaks to himself at night, O how we wish we could fix his plight!
Would knowing such a secret take Might? Would it disrupt his world's Sight? Does this conspiracy fill him with Fright?
O how we wish we could fix his plight!

Hark! Enough rambling in the meantime! We shall find this secret with perfect chime!
Tonight, we shall meet him under the moon! We shall help him 'till we swoon! He may give up rather soon!
Tonight, we shall do as he pleads! Whatever his command, we shall do as he needs!
Tonight will end the hiding!
Tonight, we will be riding!​
 
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