From the shadows of my needs A tall haunting figure approaches Wielding a black ink fountain He begins to speak. Script flowing from his whip On the pages, the shrieking storm Of time flows out, pouring a never Ending stain of blood on the floor. Words curled around his tongue, The man of old begins To weave ice in threads Bringing you to his ends. Enter the labyrinth he presents A void of lovely comprise. In the lost times Of a word so fine We live our lives in a lie. His words are forever Permanent marks on a canvas Forever my body shall be thine. Print within the dotted line. - A R McRae
This is a old poem written back during either late high school or early college days. It was most likely written on my iPod.
RadioactivePoetry 