all your kings and queens

I was told once that my pen is bloodier than a sword. As I continue dredging my head putting the torn scraps back together, I'm surprised to see it's still just a pen after all, since it's my own blood I've been using for ink.

There was a time I would not have left a soul standing. I have reached a time where I will not let a single one fall, because I know now it was me all along buried in the pit. Maybe I only dreamed I was walking about, the shadow of my soul on a listless holiday while I waited for me to find myself.

Or maybe I've already killed everybody and just haven't looked up from my writing to notice yet.