Besoughten

The moon meanders through the sky
sees the land given her, and knows
soon her hand shall land the salt
the waters down below shall rise

and father's ire shall hardly show
when wiped the cities from his hearth
her great large birth has laughed
no more. Perhaps her tired hand

has closed at past, forgets the last
good men that when the waters rose
cried out from side amidst their throes
and gurgled pretty prose and begged

for their savior save them fast.
Perhaps, perhaps, but this maiden
eyes shut tight, shall noten sight
these men or find them mien

So wish she them well, but not
to sell their daughters chastity

They are not good, but thus besoughten
lay a soot stained so much black
that on their heads are torn much back
and are only them to blame

*author's notes* My idea with this poem was kind of romantic. I had an image of the the biblical story of the flood, but I mixed it a little with paganism. In essence, mother moon, who controls the tides, get's really bad pms and kills all her children in an epic flood. I wanted to also include a kind la llorona imagery to it, as in afterwords the woman weeps for her children and sends showers forever over the earth, but I decided against it, as I think this works rather nicely. Also, I'm not sure if this poem counts as structured verse or not. The rhyme scheme is pretty bedraggled. <-<