Burn the one that flies with the raven of midnight hair,
Words in concussive form. altering thoughts of those
Fed syllables of meaning who were under the influence.

No longer a puppet, they are now consumed by what
Expels those corruption. Fire cleanses their body, mind
Purification of  the soul of impurities of word.

She was the whisperer of old moments forgotten, but
Spoken in her diluted tongue, but those of uninformed
Words, silence their saviour, a weapon against word.

They rallied before us, language of hand silent words,
She spoke to no avail, her tongue mesmerizing, but
Weakness to the silent tongue, shackled, sealed, silent.

We were of weakness to even a whisper, but they watched,
Governed over the wordless power. She did burn that night,
And as did so, ravens feathers fell like ash upon the floor.

I sometimes hide behind my poems
Like a shadow does the night
But some of you have found me out
In all my wrongs, in all my writes

You seem to know what I'm all about
Behind this mask of rhyme I use
When at times it tends to suffocate
With the subjects that I choose

Still you might wonder at my reason
I try and hide behind the write
With the face of truth in hot pursuit
Pulling false layers off my real side

Soon to be the poet naked
A poets heart exposed to all
No longer concerned with the way life burns
In the stand or in the fall