If anything, poetry is just creating with an eraser, it already exists, put it on paper, snuff out the flames of desire, a conduit, emotion in a vacuum, it’s for you to process, out of my life, and onto the internet, this is just me, the moon and her magick, a poet and his assignment, a student working on his thesis, did it stimulate, did it stir the pot, did it inspire a dream, my research notes, was it useful for something, did you take offense, if this poetry was a person, would he be stabbed and bleeding, buried six feet under, I’ll tell you now, I’m just a mental patient, and these are my delusions, my diary and my healing process, cleansing myself of spirits, refined and tested, a martial artist building his foundation, a wizard and his spellbook, or a virus under containment, are these words worth anything, you know why these words are in this corner of the internet, buried with a hope that they’ll never see the light, desire, and my hope for mankind, sin and my shame in the shadows, hiding, whatever, it doesn’t matter, all I really care about is that it’s out of my head, dreams and the beckoning of faeries, selkies, wolves howling under the moonlight, ultimately, a slave serving the heavens…


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.