Soft light fills the faded swathes of the room;
And he sits at his writing desk once more
There is spattered paper between his hands
And his fiery eyes churn still with gore
As he writes of the massacre of old
And hopes to see a publisher again.
The sword once splashed, and his hopes are yet dashed,
And the black pool on the page speaks to men
Of bloody days for the pen and the sword
And those still dark nights when bodies were found
Bodies of those people still hard at work
Cause of death unknown, no weapon around.
On the paper he speaks of the dank crime
But not with his pen. Another has signed.