The Tale of the Cursed FTF

With the deepest respect for master suspense writer Edgar Allan Poe…

Once upon a chrome web browser, while I scrolled without any trousers,
Over many an obscure cache page I think you know the score –
While I slumped, in my chair, suddenly I became aware,
Of a listing I see right there, not found by any cacher ‘ere before.
“Tis a trick” I muttered “someone’s found this cache before –
They’ve just not logged it and nothing more.”

Deep into that emptiness peering, long I sat there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no cacher ever dared to dream before;
But the logs still seemed empty, and the chances I deemed plenty,
And the only logged entry, was the reviewer saying it’s ready, once more
I roused my fingers to click it on a saved list and to store –
Merely this and nothing more.

Yet with the longing to risk the chance, I went and found a pair of pants,
And then my boots and phone and pencil and some more –
I was determined to go find, the geocache that was left behind,
Ever present in my mind, and dreaming that I would be the one to score
By writing my name in that log book as FTF right before
Anyone else who came seeking “just one more.”

Through the darkening woods I slumped, into roots and rocks I bumped,
Even with my headlamp the late October light was poor –
I hoped to have just enough, of batteries and safety stuff,
And not end up in a huff, on SAR Twitter accounts reported by North Shore
I’d hope for the best and expand my search some more
This madness drives me deeper, ever more

Then I heard my hiking pole struck, something metal amidst the muck,
That sound I knew and then I was elated to make the score –
I opened up that steely can, and removed slowly with a trembling hand
The log left by another man, as my phone battery beeped percentage four
The log was empty but I was unable to log my score
And my headlamp flickered in the darkness just once more

Now I am amongst the roots, and when I hear the sound of boots,
My pale hand stretches out from the forest floor – 
No geocacher here will find, the log book that was left behind
Only madness of another kind, as they slip beneath the muddy shore
To reside within the haunted ammo can for evermore

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