The gargoyles protect my silver crest-
the one that is tucked in a trinket box.
The piercing voices sew my mind.
And then they notice.
It was the bleeding that gave it away.
The bleeding of thoughts that seeped through the faulty key-hole.
And when it accumulated and poured,
like a stream of screams,
they stopped taunting.
Their attempt of mopping the clots off the page was more like
stabbing ink and scribbling words.