tyrant inside

I am not saint. the taint of man is mine,
the wine of sinister harvests bare held.
inside of me is the tyrant, divine
in no aspect. feral teeth, claws, the weld
of dark metal with the silver tongue, caged
by an ever draining margin of will.
blistering my heart, soul, and so enraged
that it ever upon itself feeds, ill
and yet storming titan, striking the spark
against the stones of memory as call
to the challenge of my better stripes, dark,
evil as any bastard, cruel, fool as all
would not believe of me, and I am here,
bound as Prometheus, to conquer fear.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.