I do not know exactly where I come from or why I am so sad and dramatic

There are times at night that I see a different world…by candlelight, draped in shadows

I lift the feather and dip it into the pitch black, thickened ink

I watch the fluid drip like blood from the glare in darkened windows

It is always storming, the candle flame flickering from cracks in the ancient mansion

The fire in the hearth has expired and the chill is almost unbearable

But I turn my thoughts inward in a closed fashion

To ponder on the melodramatic and scenes that are terrible

Murder whispers through the night and I continue to write

Each scratch upon the tanned skin of an animal

Reminding me of death, of ruin, of horrific sights

I think that I am safe within, yet I am so gullible

As I live my poem within my mind, my body racked with pain

I hear footsteps in the empty room and chuckle at my absurdity

It’s just the rain beating unmercifully against the leaden panes

I glance up, expecting nothing, but emptiness and levity

A figure looks down at me, standing tall and broad

How did “she” get in here, soaked with blood and shivering?

I did not hear the latch open the door; no one spoke aloud

The look on her face is horrific, and I begin quivering

I look down at myself. I’m totally reconstructed

From a modern woman of the 21st Century

To a man, dressed in finery, frightened–reluctantly

Wondering where I am and what kind of monster I must be!