FYODOR

In days of yore, where shadows wove,

There lived a king, of whom tales rove.

Midas, his name, with touch of gold,

A curse that stories oft retold. 

Midas, the king, in days of old,

Cruel of temper and greedy for gold.

With a heart of stone and a soul so cold,

 a whip of spines, his power bold.

Whate'er he touched turned to gold's decree,

Yet humanity waned, ceased to be.

In his grand hall, with riches lined,

His cruel desires left him blind.

Each grasp he made, each object met,

Turned to gold, a fate beset.

His heart grew cold with every stroke,

In golden chains, his spirit choked,

His whip did crack, his subjects cower,

For Midas cared but for his power.

Yet gold and greed consumed his mind,

And left his heart, to grief upbind.

With every touch, a kingdom lost,

In golden gleam, his dreams accost.

For love and warmth, he longed in vain,

Bound by a curse, no man could feign.

His palace gleamed in golden hue,

But empty halls, his heart did rue.

For Midas reigned in golden fright,

A king of gold, in endless night.