Inspiration
Dry husks of mangled carcasses adorn her sacred shores
Desolation leaks from her forgotten pores
Cool night's breeze deceptive of her forceful essence
This lonesome island's isolation is her question
“What is it I need?”
Flint and steel, to warm my icy heart and mind?
I'm a writer, so maybe a pen to scribe my rhymes
Fighter's spirit, a blade would suit me well to survive
But the keenest edges could not cut through the lies
Her noxious nocturnal noises nestle in my forsaken ears
Reminding me of the years, spent in isolation rearing my phantasmal fears
Tears leaving permanent trails from shit stained eyes
To lips that often spoke of my demise
A thousand blades, pens, or words could not save this poisoned prince
Trained for war, on a throne of brass casing, welded by hell fire, he sits
His Fortress of Solitude reflects upon his alien reflection
His heart and mind guarded by misguided protection
What god could give this Nephilim a shot of saving spirits?
What siren's song could keep alive him who hears it?
What could sooth the savage sultan stuck in this island's isolation?
None other than... his Spark of Inspiration.
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