Sequestered in my sepulcher, I write
In the vital hue of each quill culled fresh
From the seraph's back, the red ink of spite
Doth surge eagerly from celestial flesh,
Whets the barb of blasphemous appetite.
Eyes never unshuttered to dawning light
Under creased brow, in my silent scream
I scribe the black poetry of the blind,
This flightless arrow bears a vengeful dream
Of the unhealing heart, of ceaseless night.
Virtue and vanity and sacrifice
Offered on the altar of holy art,
Its serrated serenade chimes sublime
Though cannot banish shadows from my heart;
I pluck another feather from my spine.
On and on, on and on and on, I write.