The Compeller

To be a miserable compeller of scheme and secret

has become the backlit glory in the scales along my spine,

each barnacle snaps off my flesh onto frigid paper

which is then ravaged by the penetration of my quill,

the purest of pamphlet, jaded by the ink in my thought;

where darkness ignites barren light, dripping down,

then draining into the vacuum of my most insatiable pen;

where I become engulfed by bitter-sweet inflicted misery,

then tortured by my obsession with utter perfection

until something is finally,

rendered.

A. M. Meehan