​shards of glass lay scattered,                
your hands bore gory deeds of the night,

a sinister feeling lay inside,                      
yet I chose to hold on.

drunken revelry' now a massacre, of    
the self and soul, both washed ashore  

words now trembled, too afraid to
spring, chose to perish,                              
for what might befall.

the quill was an ally, now a foe,              
the ink too dry to leave an imprint upon.

Amidst the surrender of self, everything
else gave away, but                          
thoughts to rebel, still found a way.

refused to concede to a feudal lord.
Maybe they'll liberate my broken soul,

or maybe,                                                           ­ 
one day, they too shall surrender to my feudal lord.