In a room darken by nights’ cloak a man sits,
Brooding great thoughts of unspeakable horror
Where blood drips from the pages and pool at his feet.
He weaves his tale so fine
So tightly woven are they that those caught within its web die
And most assuredly…..
Yet he has witnessed himself
Grievance acts of horror, pain and death
Mutilated bodies whose eyes stare at the heavens
Pleading injustices and whose prayers go unanswered
They are the souls of which he writes daily.
Pitiful images dance in his head
Capturing moods of unspeakable dread
And yet, deep within…a heart beats.
Murmuring sounds of content
Looking up from death plotted pages he sheds sweet tears
Which splatters wet the writings
Whose ink slowly spreads out its fingers
Blotting out the nightmares
Of that which he wrote
Never to be seen…
Never to be read…
It is finished.