The Story

You cannot always write what you want to!

                                    

 

I sit down to write a story

A story never told

Carved inside the caskets of my flesh

Safely hidden

Camouflaged under my smiling mould

Letters scattered on parchment

Like arrows from a blind warrior’s bow

Resist making any sense

Bleed and bleed and bleed, within me

With open wounds hurriedly they stow

Having escaped my mind’s defenses

They taunt and touch and terrify me

Shrewd as they always were

Dance their way back

And go on a ravaging spree

Broken sentences fall from my lips

Like riches from a miser’s hand

Babbling tiny bits of the horrid tale

Shadows of which rise in a mist

Interphasing among verity and trance

Sitting there ruffled among the others

The empty parchment laughs and mocks me

For the story, a wretch

Was a curse, which

On the paper was never meant to be.