A madman wields an ax,

Craving the music of blade meeting bone—

Carving in the base of the tree of knowledge of good and evil,

The long-awaited resolution to the prophecy:

The madwoman that waves her quill,

Words within her that yield dark forces—

She writes what she held on her tongue,

Spitfire loose cannons,

If the slanderous chatter cannot be said with one breath—

There she blows,

Page smoking as the ink sizzles.

The things left unsaid

Turned into whispers on the wind.