Without his knowledge,

I’ve already stabbed him;

no womanly touch

has he ever deserved more.

No breath has he ever so abused

as he massacred the air,

slaving Words and Influence

to become his mistresses

in their darkest hour; knights

leap in defense against

manipulation, breaking chains,

documents in hand, stamped

and sealed; I am the exception,

a thief stolen from, or a

con-artist without a muse.

They may be the light

before me, but I may be

Death herself;

so if this man and mistresses

much quench the light,

allow the shadows to blind

them all instead,

but don’t thank me yet.