less genius than biography

I call myself a poet. What that means is ambiguous. I have dreams. Horrible, bloody ones where I am sacrificed or executed and my head is picked up and shown triumphantly to the roaring crowd. I feel every minute, every scarlet tendon ripping across my throat. I feel everything until the flickering void threatens to consume me. Then I am the glittering spectator, screaming myself raw. I am Marie Antoinette, having food and shit thrown in my face as I stumble my way up to the guillotine and I am the executioner in his hot, black hood, hearing her apologize for stepping on my foot. I am a young sinner stoned in Babylon, crying into bloodied palms and I am the Priest condemning her to burn in Hell. I am the cool, still lake watching the forest fire rage. And I am the forest fire, I am the burning bodies. The charred remains.