A valiant, old and surely ingrained,
Creator of magic and more,
The bedside – by which I'd written – was chained...
A maiden of carnal impure.
My damsel had asked for tales of a man,
With plenty of riches and gold,
A man with more roses than those of Japan,
More magic that witches of old.
Midnight was nearing and so was my fall,
She lay there asleep, or as such,
Shunning the ticks of the clock on my wall,
My quill and my chronicle touch.
A speck of the ink had courtly revered,
The canvas on which that I wrote,
A tint of the scarlet fairly appeared...
... a narrative, cardinal moat.
Wandering, pondering, mysteries old,
I envy her eloquent mind,
With dreaming, as such, of stories untold,
Of creatures and riches to find.
I ogle the tint of burgundy flow,
And scorn at the canvas beneath,
My jealousy, guilt and infamy grow,
The jittering shatters my teeth.
A flicker of fear infringes my spine,
A trickle of sorrow arose,
A bristle of tears immerses the shrine...
... of slashes and gashes I chose.
Imagining tales, and stories therein...
My calamus thundered and thud,
I cut on the dusty flesh of her skin,
By wielding the flow of her blood.