The Fearful Demise

The Fearful Demise

By the time words found me,

their ideas filled my eyes,

a lust for uncovering secrets,

became my secluded disguise.

My tongue is of poison,

this pen a fine wine,

enraptured by mystery,

capturing moments in time.

A slave to the blank scroll,

bounded by the chains of ink,

my quarters a verbal dungeon,

the finished page a deluxe suite.

My heart an open drawer,

filled with silk linen and 

painful painted rags,

my eyes see far forward,

but logically slow to a drag.

Coloring until gray,

shading and bringing depth,

giving life these common words,

and feeling every word’s breath.

The many before and the many after,

shall they unfold what I have unfolded,

they will too-unfold my disaster.

My only feared demise,

is a blank space beneath my pen,

for what the taste is to the tongue,

my written word is to my hand.