The ink seeps from my pores
Stains the parchment
I am but the instrument
The balance that was kept
Between my mind’s eye
And my thoughts
Now flows with unforgiving abandon
My fingers are but veins
From which I bleed
The fibers of the tree
Long since dead
Are now reborn
Their touch
Once a caress
Now tears with sinister delight
And me?
Pale skin now clings to bone
Breath labours
Yet still I bleed
Until I am spent
Until at last
It is done.
