resounding words trigger the onslaught
of scribbles on fair, faint lines
drawn over white fields who wait to be cultivated
through a tool that flows of molten obsidian with a lasting burn.
a tool that is never satisfied, never content
with the works of their scribbler, no matter how hard or painful.
all it needs is a path through the labyrinth of an intricate mind
so it may pick and pry until the guard falls
and shocking insides gush like blood soaking a cloth
or maybe skinny rivulets of crimson on the thirsty fields, who shove
it down their greedy throats until every vein has run dry
and the obsidian tool falls exhausted from grip.