The Crime of Writing

It sees the future,

Clairvoyant of white promise and fleeting possibility

Its moment approaches.

Silently,

Looming overhead,

Black length shivering with anticipation as it descends upon the innocence of the white.

Black and white meet at a single point

Black bleeding into white 

As I cannot remember what gave me the audacity

To act as a harbinger of fate

And alter the perfection of yin and yang.

I am homicidal,

Committing murder of virginal paper,

Leeching from the courageous pen.

The gravitas of the situation humbles me.

And thus I commit further crime,

And write.

Maybe it is the solemn acknowledgement of this which draws me,

Ever so magnetically,

To the Act.

Once the Act is complete, though, my Self burns and slitheringly reaches outside of my body to flatten itself onto the innocent white;

My soul scratches patterns, concocts brews of language which set themself into a barely legible version of the maelstrom in my body;

My mind bleeds into my fingers, which bleed into the black, which bleeds onto the white.

Once the defilement is complete, I am complete.

All that remains is a grey reminder of the Act,

And a slightly less courageous pen.