Soft Focus
What a legacy. Constrained to eternity. I was graceful. Subservient
Because there's no faith where there's certainty. Craven the author
who slaves at the altar where they favor the serpentine.
My faculties: strained. Wracking my brain - it's cradle of darkness
Can't seem to recall what became of this auteur
Gasping for memory..
Your language: A sexual kill leaking from the edge of a quill
You would spill a sentence to death if it was bereft of a will
to live. Exceptional skill and wit. Your prose and sense exhibited
In darkness only. A stroke against the inarticulate. Hold my heart,
control it. Honestly. "Follow me." Of course, my inspiring phoenix
Made more sense to breathe it in than trying to reach it
Discipleship suited me. At night you would beautifully croon to me.
A eulogy- underneath the moon. A crucifixion of signature style
Now, my writtens: contrived. Following your infinite sight were a million
diffident sprites. The numbers would grow. Following your wonderful flow
In your whispers and sighs. It so happened, now your barely spoke
And even more rarely wrote. We followed suit. To replicate
your hollowed truths. Indoctrinated longing youth, striving
to be more like you.
Putting pen to a pad, nothing's occurring. You'd subtly journey
Into my mind. Figured it was the crux of my journey.
Now was when I'd be scripting my best... What infinite jest
As I laid my pen on my empty shill of a chest. So much for Hemingway.
Or even Joyce. Hell, I'd be remembered anyway.
So when the sun went away, I snuck into your quarters
With a promise to put no further trust in your orders
I brought a bloody disorder - my best use of ink; a cresting catharsis
A blooming masterpiece in your wake; the death of an artist
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