The blood that I spill
This red river doth fill
Allow it to soak through your pelt
I open my soul
With singular goal
That being revealing myself
Emotionally naked
Reality fading
Soon there may be merely ashes
Metaphorically spoken
My shell is near-broken
My spine has been littered with lashes
Should I live should I die
Should I give up or try
Should I bleed or concede to continue
The darkness inside me
Could break me or guide me
I feel it in every last sinew
The crimson is warm
I’m watching it form
Congealing with feeling and passion
Take heed of my prose
Delve into the rose
There are thorns regimentally fashioned
Allow me to feed
On each teardrop you bleed
Let misery guide you to peace
I’m a writer no fighter
A loveable blighter
Inside whom writhes ravenous beast
As I ride into battle
Do so without saddle
No broadsword or armor in sight
My quill is my fury
Desiring to lure thee
Into the resplendent red light
So come take communion
Commence this sweet union
Fear not as I lead with conviction
I am black I am white
I am weak yet almighty
I’m fact and I’m very much fiction
Salacious dark dreams
Tease vermillion streams
Drink them in with immediate relish
Fear not for safe-keeping
Look not before leaping
The Keeper shall not see you perish
A great mind not wasted
With cruor it’s basted
No more disinclined to endorse this
For the fluid that spills
My life force refills
Perpetual crimson resources
Shall close with a kiss
For the blood from my wrists
Tastes sickly sweet as it spills
I’m bleeding proceeding
Receding yet feeding
Belief straight back into the quill
Richard Charles Stevens
Keeper of The Crimson Quill
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