Author's note: I was trying to write fiction, and this poem came out instead. Poetry isn't everyone's cup of tea, so I'm going to add any poems the Muse sends to this series as chapters. Those of you who wish can subscribe; everyone else can keep reading fiction.

Credit where credit is due: Thanks to SpaceAnJL and Fiveroses, who reviewed this poem and contributed valuable editorial comments.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Mentalist or its characters, but I'm sure as hell inspired by that show. Many kudos to Bruno Heller and team (does anyone know what a kudo actually is?)

Geas

Alone, in the empty rooms

That once housed all you held dear

Night after night, you listen to echoes

Of screams you never heard.

You weren't there when it happened

When the bloody showman took them for his work

And, like a malevolent fist

Squeezed the life out of your heart.

Now, they're long gone

Reluctant travellers to an undiscovered country

(You cannot join them.)

Now, your home is a shell and you, a hollow man

Wander a wasteland of grief and regret.

This colourless place lacks even shades of grey

The air burns your lungs with every breath

The air tastes of ashes.

Things are better than when you first arrived.

Then, you were shattered near to nothing

But you searched, found the bits of yourself

Pieced things together (more or less)

With the help of a wingless angel.

In that other world, where you used to live

You paint yourself bright colours

Sing, dance, laugh, divert, amuse, deceive

With wit, trickery and guile.

The performance is near-perfect

(They always did say you could have been an actor.)

No one looks past the sparkle in your eyes

To see the scythe reflected there.

You live (if one could call it that)

For a single purpose:

Find the artist, finish his work

Teach him the lesson he never learned:

The true cost of his art.

You'll ensure he understands, finally

What it means to be paint and canvas

As you wield your razor edge

Upon his flesh.

You've dreamed this reckoning uncounted times

In all its bloody variations:

Performing your task with manic laughter, nausea, silent tears

Or grim determination.

What you cannot fathom, try as you may

Till your task is finished

And the monster lies cold and silent before you

Is who you will become.

When your deed is done, purpose fulfilled

Who will you be –

Nemesis, or heir?

Postscript: "Geas" (also spelled "geis") is a term from Irish folklore that describes "an idiosyncratic taboo, whether of obligation or prohibition, similar to being under a vow or spell." (Wikipedia). It's found new life in the world of fantasy fiction and role-playing games. Two weeks after I wrote the first draft of this poem, the word popped into my head as the appropriate title. (I believe it's pronounced "GEE-ass" but I'm not sure.) Since I had to look it up to confirm the meaning, I thought an explanatory note was appropriate. Sure poetry is supposed to be obscure, but come on, we're readers on this site, not detectives!