Chalice of Ruin

In this tale of fury, where wrath flows free,
A chalice sits, cursed as cursed can be.
Not of gold nor bedecked with jewel,
Forged in darkness, filled with cruel.
The lips that touch it, taste despair,
A drink so potent, foul as night air.
Each gulp a poison, a trap for the soul,
Binding the drinker to a ghastly role.

Wrought by hands not human but cold,
Its story through ages silently told.
In whispers and warnings that chill the spine,
Of those who dare to let their fates entwine.
This chalice ruins not just the flesh,
It eats away hope, enmeshes souls in mesh.
A net of shadows that tightens with each breath,
A pact with ruin that dances with death.

Through the corridors of power, it passes, unseen,
A specter of doom wrapped in a sheen.
Kings and warriors, all have sipped,
From its cursed rim, into darkness slipped.
No castle walls, no armies deter,
Its silent march, its sinister purr.
It seeps into the cracks of hearts,
Till all that was whole quietly departs.

Drink, if you dare, from this vessel so stark,
Beware the shadows it casts in the dark.
For the chalice of ruin knows no master or lord,
Only the chaos and discord it’s stored.
So here it rests, in tales of old,
A lesson in hubris, bitterly told.
Beware the allure of power’s sweet taste,
Lest your soul too, be laid to waste.