The scribe

[Manslick]

who was there when inspiration fed the scribe
it dripped off virgin leaves like sweet sweat
were you there when fresh ale was handed to the scribe
to stay the A list that was lain upon his raging restless brain

his skull aboil with snakes and fish encoil
a cycle pushed by force unknown
to some distant shore
where life revolves like dreams

we all know the hill
on which we toil and till
over and over like waves
like fires from pounding slaves

The wretched rich on the high
can not block the sound
that echoes from the ground
no wax into the ear will give you solace dear

black night still walks on with measured steps
again the ceiling shows you where you want to go
the bleating of the goat inspires your heated throat
to plunge the silver knife into your eye

Ah, - but, you do not die
you feel a warm runnel on your lip
and taste a thing you'd long forget
but sight a flight.
you stumble now like a drunkard
from your table at the junk yard
where your kind are well beyond the quell
they welcomed with the silver knives

now night skies yield to grey
you feel your black dismay
inspiration will not save you
when you cut the thread they gave you
die scribe die
your words will fill the sky
like wisps of white and birds in flight