by Aneza Lee
Crude scribbler of base words, crude bearer of rusted swords, smite me with a mighty blow, yet think of all the things ye’d want to know before my last breath expires. Secrets grand that lay beyond death’s gate, secrets made of death and hate, lust and fate, emptiness and the sins of the great.
Paint me a song, with artist’s brush and writer’s quill, paint it with light and shadow, if ye will. Inspiration is a slavish devotion, it cares not for appearances, it will sip from thy soul, it will sup from thy spirit and leave thee sated with it.
Drink now from the chalice that is me, speak now thy own thoughts as from the heart they do rise, like stars in velvety night skies. Inspiration, a favoured lover, a new light to discover, like a vast landscape painted in hues…
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