Bitten by a spider
at the oddest hour.
His whole body throbbing
with his own pulse.
All his insides are charred
but sleep is not a willing
companion.
The eternal coronation,
death as his champion.
Sweating through a thin veil
of details, begging the question,
begging for recognition,
even the most elegant logic is an ugly thing.
In delirium, he tears his journal apart-
that's how an artist starts.
He is ugly,
he is crude,
he drank some poison
down in Greenwood.
he becomes quite faint
when struck with the
quaint notion:
that even the heavy
handed blacksmith
has finesse, and feeling too.