Shuddering shaking and shivering in fear, the tapping, tapping that I hear so near.
The fear has returned, my bloodied muse at my back, her tortured hands upon my neck as her twisted face a broken smile of recognition.
Such a saddened thing at the return of my grim fate.
Lashed to the page, chained to the well, my pen drips the black ink, the color of my soul that I know so, so well.
My form ephemeral, my purpose not set, I am the writer, to my muse, a fond pet.
She neither cares for me, nor clothes me, or sees to my feed, for she devours not but fear and twisted dreams, and it seems, to me, expects myself to do the same.