Physical abuse is tough to handle. First it happens with a sandle. Then next its black ink and a candle.
They see my light but that was not I. I was there before it was created to have man die. I was there before the first "why?".
Many see the many faces and unaware of the faceless one. Behind masks of plaster and alabaster bastards, where is the silent needle that won?
Does ye not know black is not a color then? For what is color but light reflecting off the ink from my pen.
They hit my shin. And their clay masks become a grin. As one neers as though they had the win. A greater power caused the reaching arm to stutter and in his eye the pin.