by Nick Gisburne
The shadows push my pen to trace a word,
Then others, more and more. The pages fill,
Impossible to read, distorted, blurred,
A manifesto scratched against my will.
What sentience begat these restless ghosts
Does not reveal its nature as I write,
But when I dare defy its fearful hosts
A terror grips my heartstrings, all too tight.
When every piece of paper is consumed,
The fury of the words has drained me dry.
Exhausted, with my soul dissolving, doomed,
I read it, too abused to wonder why.
The mystery, the meaning, is unfurled.
It orders me to rise and rule the world.
