The blue glass
bottle
of the night
Deepens into black velvet
As the celestial poet
Fills his inkwell with
The finest India ink
in preparation
For an evening of revision
In the notebook of the
Heavens…
Punctuating his sentences
With diamond stars.
It
sits on my desk
Like a welcome lover
A wisping black curl with
A golden tip bloodied
By India ink and
Poisoned words.
I have killed thousands with
Its innocuous aid
Murdered the innocent and
Punished the guilty.
Its innocence is tainted
With a despot s power.
Heads have rolled
To rest at the feet
Of drunken warlords.
Children have screamed
In baths of fire.
I am a writer, and
My pen rules the world.