The will of the Wisp in all its bliss wandered wildly wayward
It was sorely missed by the scrawny fist
As it whipped too fast wickedly past.
The last he heard;
Upon a mound of ground he found; the sound resounded.
It was to him like a somber hymn
As it tore the skin off his shin.
The pain remained to claim his shame;
Until composure gripped him.
He rose quite near; free from fear.
He attacked from behind only to find,
The Wisp has a mind so deeply unkind.
It spun around and lunged unsound
To make a mess of fresher flesh.
But to its demise from beyond the cries,
The Wisp failed to notice
His eyes poised with focus.
This time he will not miss.