The Diary
26th April 1993
My dry, old pages have witnessed so much. Too much.
My parchment still grasps onto those last strands of the orphanage,
The spine-tingling scents of mould and disinfectant.
Those were the dates.
Before my beautiful binding was tainted with ink. And blood.
10th March 1939
In a room emblazoned with green, feigned air of grandeur,
My leather stretches out painfully, under the scratch of his quill.
Such horror of the mind should never blemish parchment.
My worn covers shield the world from the darkness.
2nd August 1942
I now find myself old beyond my purpose,
Half my pages unglued and shifted.
But as I watched my leaves, curled and mildewed,
The ink, tarnishing them, lifted.
I was blank, anew, wiped clean of the monster
That I was forced to confine.
The weight of my sin-sodden pages fell away,
I was free from the terror inside.
13th June 1943
For almost a year, I have been a closed book,
Relieved of the discomfort of his memoir.
But with a twist in the tale and burning pain in my gauze
I was stretched, ripped, torn open.
A chapter of his soul has become parasite within me.
Deceit. Destruction. Death. Desolate, decaying humanity.
I feel it all through the soul of this dark demonic dweller.
26th April 1993
So much ink, so much blood,
Too much pain, too much death.
And yet another innocent was about to turn-in.
I wished from my headcap to tail that he would finally fail.
And by the grimy light of this repugnant chamber,
My wish was finally granted.
I saw the deadly point of bittersweet relief.
And shed black, inky tears of my own blood.