The Soliloquy of Metus

The paper lies white.
My hands are stained black.
The words come and then fade.
Useless.
My life’s blood all dried up.
Today, tomorrow, a void stretches before me.
I wish to close my eyes.
But the words are there,
flashing signs that go no further than my head.
Water to drown them.
Fire to burn them.
Nothing must remain.
If I lose them, the page still lies white.
If I let them stay, the page still lies white.
But will black hands turn to red?
Will it drip onto the page and revive the words?
My sticky fingers trace over the parchment.
A garish color for a garish mind.
I look again.
The paper lies white.

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