You speak of vision
While completely blind
To the truth around you.
Plying your trade, a beggar
Spewing false beneficence
A supplicant to the masses.
No different than the whores of Mysia.
You are a cautionary tale.
The punchline for poor judgement.

So much potential
Yet still a poetaster.
This premature ascension
Has only created, a
Megalomaniac.
Fine art may be in your future
Certainly not in the past, and
Definitely not in the present.

So slander me.
Attack my past.
Eviscerate the threads
Of our fellowship.
Bury the knife deep
See the light in my eyes, die
Alongside my hope
For you.
For what you could have been.

I am here
Piked before all
A martyr.
I begged you to change.
I have failed you.
My blood is on your hands
It shall taint your milk
Or perhaps, improve it.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Valnuary, in the year 867 AF.