The Writer

He squeezed and squeezing thus,
about the quill,
a grip of iron, clutched
gnarled fingers etched and fussed
Black ink did spill
the words this pulp to fray

See now the beaded sweat
on down his brow
The cords of rivulets
from pate flow unto neck
'Twixt beam and frown
his countenance displays

In past, what shames were born?
What losses reaped
this gilded crown of thorns
delusively adorned?
When truth's too steep
for parchment's price to pay

Here lies the writer's lie:
print pressed and prim,
His life's spun alibi,
His false tears' alkali
polished of sin
Beneath ground to decay