They say that the pen is mightier than the sword;
But the only blood that can be spilled is from the writer herself,
The battles waged are those within,
And the King served is one unknown.
Shrouded and covered.
One who reigns in the spiderwebbed shadows of her mind,
In the crevices and corners that she long ago locked away.
He holds the skeleton key.
He has access to all things her:
Memories, wishes, fears, regrets.
Things she hides from others and things she hides from herself.
Against such an omnipresent force the sword is useless;
Against such reluctant ears and loose lips,
Such cold, closed hearts,
The words the pen preaches lay fallen.
As cold as the hearts of her audience,
At the feet of an army that refuses to be moved.