The Poet

This was more of a free write that I actually became quite attached to.

What is my name? 

Why do Ravens perch upon my shoulders as two guardians?

 Why are my words heavier than the sword I cradle in my palm? 

Perhaps my life is merely the twisting threads of a tapestry unraveling as my life slowly fades, yet still I breathe.

 Is it only that I can no longer see the dreams before my eyes?

 But what is a murderer but a poet, and should poets dream at all? 

Red on my hands as clear as spilled wine from a goblet. I weave magic with my sword, each slash a new story to tell, dancing against flesh as girls dance to a bard's merry tune.

 A poet, I am; a poet of war.

 These ravens still perch unbidden, messengers to the underworld as my foes pay their passage to the next life. Black bodies feasting on the soulless shells left in my wake.

 A poet, I am, for who else could paint such images with the blood I have shed? 

Flipping coins with fate, I thrust ever onward, waiting until the day my companions take from me my payment as the final thread is snipped; waiting for the poets song to end.