At times, I dream myself besieged.
                    I rebel with the cunning of the weak.
                    I walk the shortcuts.
                    Tormentors clad
                    in blood-soaked black,
                    salute as I manipulate them
                    into realizing their abyss.
                    Some weep their sockets hollow,
                    or waive their thorns.
                    Much pain negotiated.
                    A trading of the wounds.
                    My chains carve metal
                    and I am branded.
 
                    Copyright © 2005 by Sam Vaknin