To be the poet of the darkness.

by blossom666

How very blessed I am as I spill thoughts upon a blank canvas

my soul the ink of my heart. I can weave magical worlds of

mystic glory, Celtic horizons, white knights  ..dark knights,

beautiful enchantresses lost beneath celestial skies in divine

mortality upon liquid gold lakes of glory. Oh how very blessed

my fingers are to entangle the beauty of a dark and dying world.

But lest I ever forget with great glory comes great responsibility.

I can coarsely stitch together the etched pains of manipulation,

prostitute sinfully my soul upon sacred markings of envy,

spit, gracefully, callously poison darts at the heart of of my victim,

pulling at silken threads held by a puppeteers fair hand

my fingers stained with the blood of deceit, the sweat of ego

as my spoiled soul tantrums at the indignation and

mere whisper of loneliness. And oh such responsibility

comes at the hand of a poet.

Karen Hayward ©2016