He holds a pen in one hand
His heart in another
The vessel of precious blood still beating
Dripping sweetly, carelessly on the weathered and worn parchment of his life
The stain a hypnotizing hue,
Slowly as surely the man puts forth his pen
And from the dribble of ink a word is formed
The word ,,, a ghastly form
The sorts of laughter in a funeral
The mighty mask of conscious preparation
Escapes him, no wit to be found,
And the world is his audience
Afraid and unaware
He strikes the word from meaning
No clever story to resolve the conflict
No victory toast no victor song,
The man once was held his heart
In hand
And all he wrote was FEAR
Drunk and trying my hand at intoxicated poetry, hope you enjoy,
