riposte

I've been struck

Soon after my turn to speak

My inspiration spills instead of blood

But I must not waver

For any sign of capitulation is one of indiscipline

 

My knowledge fails me when I least expect it

And he strikes at my most neglected line of defense

It comes in the form of a burning haze

Slowly aggravating the pain I can no longer hide inside

(If her eyes still follow...

What a shame I feel for this weeping hermit)

 

It as if the gods intervene in his favour

For his strikes fall harder when louder I speak

Or perhaps I grow weak?

Because perhaps there's no mysticism in my suffering

But oh there's much of it in my poetry

 

What do you make of it?

 

Here's what I make of it

Fools believe harder because alone they believe

So the bigger need to cultivate the belief so to prove a point

And so

I will believe I can create my own prophecy

I will believe I will make it to the sacrifice

Through the provided discipline of a daily routine

 

I have been struct

Right where it hurts

But I still stand

 

Should it all be for naught

With my own hands I shall end the curse