Poet of Blood

Men who write, ballads and prose,

Beautiful poems,

Stories from travels,

Hugest demons hidden in the pen,

Darkest secrets unfold,

Blood and tears, write the tales on paper

Of some heart broken,

Or some trust shattered.

The pain you feel as you read on,

May not be theirs to boast,

Shards of glass hearts

Fragments of wrecked hopes.

Of guilt, of shame, of ego smells,

Stench of corpse of dead dreams,

Fill you a vague sense of their misery.

Poet of sadness, painter of love,

Ever built even a sandcastle of emotion.

Love now reeks of a ghost of emotion,

Shall one day avenge its death.

Poet of Blood, something awaits you.

Oh endearment, oh dear love