Scribe, your heart is like the
white mark inside a target
Pierced by the quill of your
pen which bleeds black ink.
Your love is nothing more than
a mournful remembrance having
an important part to act out, now
in desperate need of company.
And like some unhallowed ground
you are destitute and reek of impurity
The armour plating now tarnished
Your face dawns a death mask.
No sign of lungs breathing, overtasked
they run the gauntlet through a maze
Desperately seeking a place to once
again be embroidered with air.
Scribe, the departure of your faithful lover
now sits upon your thoughts weighing
heavily upon your mind – you put the pen
away in its’ rusty scabbard for all time.
Sand in the hourglass has stolen what
remains of your life – only time left to
plunder and pillage any glimmer of hope
that is trying to whitewash your brain.
Scribe, all the brokenhearted come to pay
their disrespects metaphorically – you did
not conquer mistrust, rather, it conquered
You now get to live in total regret.
Ó 2009 R. Lance Sheridan