The quills of creation come from the foul by force.
The blood of life and death is the ink of the story.
Dip the quill into the well of blood.
Write your story to kill me on the parchment of life.
Sharpen your quill with the bone knife you made from my rib.
The quill burns the parchment of my soul.
The lies and despair cut, scarring forever the body and soul.
The Trumpeter cries in pain with every stroke.
Even in death the story will live full of life to be born
better again.
The scars on the flesh and the soul worn as a badge of
honor.
(copyright aswg 2/14/2014)
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