Night Keys

Don't judge a book by its cover...

Tick, tick, click, tick
Her dark blood slashes a 't',
Ugly black disciples in her wake,
Her sacrifice stamped and sent.
She, submissive to the words
Of the creator.

And as he stabs away,
Wildely,
His touch assures with each strike,
That despite her blood loss
And sickly lines of Royalty,
The keys to her release, imminent,
The late night,
Near an end.
For Oscar always lovingly mended
His ever-faithful typewriter.
Tick, click, tick, tick.

Author's Note

Please ignore any grammar/spelling errors.

Reviews

[Brandon Lee]

I may be wrong here, but are you writing about your muse? If so, it is what I got from the poem. the words and imagery act kindly to enduring a master/slave relationship as the writer beats her into life, but giving her life in the end is more meaningful then the death he might insure. But it could also be about the relationship of one and his typewriter. But I like to believe it was the former and not the latter.

Keep up the splendid work C.

-Brandon

[Sparrow]

I loved this, I didn't see it coming at all, but maybe I'm just slow. Well, depsite that you still get a well done :)