The Wordsmith beckons,
Finger crooked and bent
From pens and quills and verse
That spill, all too frequent,
That paint like blood and curse.

The Writer smirks,
Lips tainted black and dark
From speaking to the unbeliever,
The force to know their mark,
Their words are tinted sinister.

The Artist screams,
Silent, soundless, and crude,
From words they tossed,
Let escape and exude,
Their craft’s eternal cost.