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Cloak of the Arcane
October 17, 2018
Without his knowledge,
I’ve already stabbed him;
no womanly touch
has he ever deserved more.
No breath has he ever so abused
as he massacred the air,
slaving Words and Influence
to become his mistresses
in their darkest hour; knights
leap in defense against
manipulation, breaking chains,
documents in hand, stamped
and sealed; I am the exception,
a thief stolen from, or a
con-artist without a muse.
They may be the light
before me, but I may be
Death herself;
so if this man and mistresses
much quench the light,
allow the shadows to blind
them all instead,
but don’t thank me yet.
© Andrew F., Lake In The Hills, IL
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This was a spontaneous piece, written out of anger. That's about all I can say about it, as it's clear that I may have gone off the rails with the medieval imagery that came about randomly as I began writing it. Also, for once, a poem that isn't about love! You could say I'm branching out, I suppose. I hope people enjoy and perhaps relate to the vengeful and empowered tone of this. Many thanks!