The world is the author of these words
Not I
Its rivers roll through
With their songs of creation and wrath

Tragedy is a guide
For every stroke of this pen
In the long spacious hours, when I’m fed with despair

Life composes the vitriol I spit
Every curse, every ballad of blood
Was never born of this husk

I am
But their lowly vessel
Being kicked around, by the passage of time