Torture On the Parchment.
Oh, empty quill
On brittle parchment
Why with such zeal
Do you deride me?
Such power to prevent
A single word
From being scratched out
Repudiating inspiration
For the moment
Forbidding me
To imbibe of breath
Tell me of that
With which I have sinned
That warrants this pain
This censure…
Necessitates from accusation
This allegation
Which I must answer
Before judgment
Surges forth
Washing over me
If I bloody those pages
Dirty your eyes
Holding my verse
Contemptible
I shall answer you
Without vanity’s mask
To abstain from
Penning my verse
Upon your note paper
My compositions
Will be now penned
In the blood of autumn frost
On the windblown foliage
Contented throughout
That no evil can be read
On wind scattered verses
Of me…
Copyright © Charles Fuller | Year Posted 2008
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