they came
from out of
the rain.
bringing but one
thing with them;
everlasting pain.
they’ve infected
my quill,
my name,
my pen.

now all that’s
excreted
be a viscous,
blood red.

but once this ink
had depleted,
to be able
to continue
to write,
required the
blood
of mine self –
now doesn’t that
give you a fright?

but the fear of
becoming deleted,
from my own supply
being depleted,
red red red red red,
was ever worse
than
itself
being dead.