Consumed

((For my poetry class, we have to write a poem in someone else's voice. My friend suggested Edgar Allan Poe, and I think it turned out very well.))

Upon the night two days before last

as I shambled to get water in my glass,

a sudden compulsion overtook my mind

and I swayed in an arc to return from where I came.

With my pen upon my desk I sat

and to the sound of the scratch my mind wandered.

Free of the bonds I looked down and beheld

my body shackled in the chair and that to absolution.

A shell, a shadow, a specter of my surreal self.

Following the followers to survive in monotony

break away to be consumed by the Muses

and through them our blood forms the words

in scarlet letters upon the parchment.

My hand is the tool shadowing the pattern

set out by Them for us all to chase after.

My eyes are blind to the corrupt within,

but I see from within that I cannot escape.

These manacles I forge with every word

and every thought that I think is my own.

I write my death and feel not a thing;

not anguish, nor acrimony or agitation.

I simply write until the blood in my fingers

runs like a red river.

((And as usual, I claim copyright.))