The Poet

This pen of which I writ
Blood pours from the wounds that have been
sinfully attached to my wrists.
The paper is stained by my blood that has been used
as ink to writ the passings of Time.
What have I done to deserve such false accusation?
I am innocent – yet they are blind by greed and
the tempting thought of handling Fate.

I sit here in the dark, my wings ripped away
the world slowly is borne from my writings.
The agony of being jailed here, time passes slowly
the clock turns backwards as the World is created.
Chains chafe my ankles and wrists;
they are wrapped around my limbs as I continue to write
tears fall as my jailors eventually forget me.

Soon the dark warps my mind, turning the thoughts
into insanity and what was once pure is no longer.
This niche of the darkest realms is my prison,
yet I continue to write – it is my solemn duty.

Yet, I will get my revenge.

I will survive to see the end…

After all, I am the Poet.