The scratching of the quill is like
an errant clock that’s ticking.
The drumming of my fingers is
a stuck gear wheel that’s clicking.
My fondest memories of you
like flies to glue are sticking.
My darkest dreams meander
through sharp nettles that are pricking.
The birds of paradise do flee
as hellhounds scent the sadness.
They howl their invitation loud
to join them in their madness.
I turn and try to run away,
and demons fill the darkness.
To brand upon my wretched heart
a beauty turned to starkness.
But there are no regrets here, friend.
Just tears and sighs and crying.
And now the morning sun so bright
is rising while I’m dying.
The drumming fingers start to slow,
eventually grow still.
The heart that beats so softly now,
keeps time with errant quill.
BlackQuill 