No poet in this poetry,

Nonetheless, will be a story,

Nightmare has erupted in the dawn of Man,

Stricken with fear for a faulty prophecy,

A tearful traveller witnessed this and ran

In a sobbing rampant for his idiocy

T'was an unconditionally loved yet scorned

Caressing the fool's gold, not monetary

It is an unlikely surmise to be born

Yet will be a resembling reality.

The traveller arrived at his work station

Preparing for the conflict with dubious effort

One knows his foreboding anticipation

No other with knowledge to stupidly retort

He had written a poor document,

To secure his fictional fortune

He knows the worst is beyond imminent

Yet hopes to have a new future to prune