a page

would succumb to the wale of his memoirs wrath and wither by the gale of the writer's breath the aversion he tasted thru the years of woe, and the anguish wasted, allege him his evilly sow the long gone dead and their castrate journals, allow a tear to be bled on old, offensive portals. would lay prostrate and still, reciting the jots of ink; a wench to his wicked will, the page his passion drink