The toad claims I told lies,
So I go to her office at night.
She hands me parchment and quill,
And tells me to start writing.
I begin to write and feel a sharp pain.
I see on the parchment, my blood.
Words formed of my blood,
Punishment for my lies.
Hours and hours of pain,
As I write long into the night.
At last I can set down the quill,
And stop the monotonous writing.
A short time passes before I return to writing.
Never any ink, always my blood,
Goes onto the parchment from the quill.
I find myself telling lies,
As people ask what happens every night.
I refuse to let them see my pain.
My right hand aches in pain,
But I continue writing,
In her office every single night.
Let out only after I have given her my blood.
I look at my hand and see lies,
And dread the next night with the quill.
As I hold in my hand the quill,
I think how it has caused me pain,
Because I told the truth, not lies.
I see irony in the words I am writing.
Irony formed in the words of blood.
Irony is why I am here every night.
I made a resolution that night,
Placed on parchment by the quill.
It was bound by my blood,
Earned through my pain,
And found in my writing,
‘I must not tell lies.’
Born out of these nights of pain,
Through quill and endless writing,
An oath formed in blood to never tell lies.