The Poetry of Pain
My words are the cackling of crows-
slit their tongues to make them speak,
And like the cacophony of the Suicide Woods,
my sentiments bleed forth from broken branches,
So I fear Apollo's warm rays that lull me to slumber,
the luxury of contentment that makes me mute,
I prefer rather the untempered Valkyries's storm,
which whips my feelings to frenzy,
and the lightning that forges the spear of my pen,
Phrases honed to sharpness may wound the wind,
giving recompense for the sufferings and struggles,
that Muses, except Despair, are ignorant of,
But elusive ethereal stanzas splinter in the poet's heart,
and are sunk into the sorrowful sea on a Kraken's back,
drowning all souls who clutch at them,
In the depths they darken and drag the spirit into the abyss,
Yet my verses may rise Phoenix-like from death,
and burn brighter for feeding off their own ashes.