THE_POET

 

He had once killed a man, with no passion involved. He once killed a man because she had asked him to, said it would be like one of his poems come to life. Wasn't he a poet after all, she purred. And he was, in life if not in talent. 

So he believed her, and with the man's blood on his hands, crisp and seeming almost golden in the early morning light, she had seemed true to her musings, it had seemed like a poem, his poem. 

But the hauntings had started not long after, and the poem, his poem, had turned into an unfurling tragedy, with him at its centre. It swallowed him whole, both in daylight and dreams, as she knew it would. She had bargained away his future life, as gods are want to do, and she had made him both the debt and the gift. He was now a poet for all it was worth, just like she said he was, Lady of the Golden Tongue.