Bleeding Ink

[Mama Umbridge]

Blood is her ink,
With tears as her well,
A blade is her pen,
But life is her hell.

With each lengthened scratch,
And deep quickened pace,
She's writing her words,
And losing her race.

She's losing her muse,
And losing her rhyme,
With each angry word,
She's further from fine.

The words slowly flow,
Pouring and free,
The hell is subsiding,
And leaving her be.

Her pace is now fading,
And the ink is now more,
The tears have subsided.
With a blade on the floor.


[this is for the novel I'm working on]