My truth..
is that I’ve paid
my debts
in full.

Yay, I have played
the scheming villain.
I have played
the loving fool.

So many times
I feasted on
the very guts
that I once
spilled.

What sort of
monsters
and enigmas
didn’t I subdue
with my poetic will?

The only
monstrous enigma
that I still can’t seem
to solve,
however hard I try..
is why this will
clings unto me
for its dear life?

When there is
nothing left
for me to say..
why do I write?
When there is
nothing left
within my heart
to feel,
why can’t I seem
to find..
my peace eternal
in the silence
of this dark
and moonless
night?

Whatever rhymes
or reasons for it
there may be..
The Poet’s quill
still mercilessly
makes me bleed.
Perhaps The Devil
never truly sets
his debtors
fully free.

Perhaps
because
The One
who chose
to wield
the sharpness
of The Poet’s
trusty quill..
May only ever
perish by
impalement
on The Devil’s
pointy spear.