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'Twas at the edge I spotted him

At times I had walked with but the end of mind returning me

An oaken pole in a nervous hand, another, nails gathering crumbs

And lint and therefore time

Pikes had flipped aplenty

And all within the brief moment I stood observant

Fins of moistened awe, fangs, to froth a lust for momentary boldness

Had it not been for the old man's net of loose loops adjoining

Had it not been for a pact with the devil, appointing

There, as I contemplated, at guard in willow shades

I aligned, as had once been written

That there was to be none of them like the pride of Petravore

Stealing herself, slipping nets and city gates

There, as it was mine to depart, I watched him take

A staggering step towards the open, then retreating

First to take a few more swings with a ravaged net

In the attempt to restore the pride to Petravore