Sitting at her desk
The quill to the paper.
She wrote viscously,
As she was urged.
Drip,
Of blood fell from her nostril.
Every once in while
A high pitched shrill
Could be heard from the hall.
A small area of the window pane
Was not covered by drape.
Peering out, a porcelain girl
Was there.
Dancing.
In the sun, as if she was the leader
Of the orchestra.
Writing as she bled,
She glared through the minute hole,
Mesmerized by the movement.
--Freedom of body.
The blood poured now,
Like a stream.
Wiping it on her dark sleeve,
She continued;
Blurry-eyed now.
As the dancer leaped to her partner,
The pen-slave collapsed on the pad.
Her quill continued by her spirit,
and captured each detail of the dance.