The body is a liar.
The body is a prison.
It has the early on-set signs of paranoia,
with cautious skin and structured organs.
It holds the heart hostage,
ribs casting shadows over each other.
Blood is a moat,
keeping life inside the throat.
One cut and you will see,
just how fragile life can be.
Writers are murderers in their own right,
sealing fates with words of contrite.
It is on the carcasses of trees that they ink their tales,
Blood is the ink by which they use,
blackened by the deaths it has transduced.
Employed are a writer’s words of guise,
capable of telling both truth and lie.