Still, I Write

The blanket of night conceals my endeavor
In darkness’ hush rebellions I compose
Elaborating schemes most clever
While circulating amongst the shadows

Enslaved by a criminal devotion,
In thrall to Odin, I sharpen my pen,
Imbibing that forbidden potion
which gives a mortal man the strength of ten

From so many-splendored contradictions
Sublimest imperfection rears its head
Emerging from the wreckage of convictions
To feast upon a pilfered crust of bread

Scripturient compulsion now fulfilled
Not blood, nor milk, but only ink was spilled