the poet's demise.

theres always a price

i degrade my words,

to the purest forms.

to figure out,

if i really loved.

                       

in my castle

of mud and worth.

i can tear down the walls,

if i thought it a prison.

 

rooms without beds,

fill lonesome brown hallways.

i thought to keep it there,

above.

   

my dungeon's excess,

of lust and resent unridden.

to quell the 'cutioner,

he seems to listen.

                                   

for the 'cutioners toll

is a lovely condition.

between life and death.

'ever a disastrous decision.

            

so, hang myself high,

above my commoners.

the gallows, my home.

ill gladly testify.