It bled the ink that cut the scroll
in a bold but blinded
vengeance.
Curled below your pillow as you lie
too deeply, it can’t help
but
slowly drain the words
remembered by the tension of its muscles,
yet slowly
still,
as not to wake you;
just enough to
sink your dream in the
toxins of a craven mind…

and this is how it plays—
charges will fail to fire when
only the ghost of a finger hits the trigger, so
just blame the palm to
spare the mind, now
cuff your wrists and weep, as
your hands are gone! Gone for
your folly, your fear, and
the dead ringer’s mystery:
who better favoured
to wield the dagger?