Literature Assasin
I disappear into blackness,
with tools that light my way.
Soaking up desire on pages,
that help me seize the day.
From a heightened precipice,
the angels guide my verse.
Words like daggers sharpened,
and emotions as my curse.
Wisdom shrouds my appetite,
a hunger for unfinished prose.
The first poem ever written,
about love and its fair rose.
A white hooded figure still,
fading out into crowded rhyme.
Stealth with flow from penning,
shortcuts like thee and thine.
The final destiny of poetry,
lies from the warrior prophet.
Experience not once commenced,
and knowledge may never stop it.
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