My story is filled with blotted ink
from the tears that so freely fell
Ensnared behind my closed mouth
words form and then rebel
Hands bleed with the need to write
but the pen has long been dry
Sometimes I wonder if
it has always been a lie
Then what is this
that flows through my veins?
Forged from silver
held back by chains
I do not see blood
only unformed murmurs
Mere fragments of the thoughts
buried beneath the armor
And if you tore me open
all you will ever find
Is blank paper
torn pages
and ink run dry.
-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-