The Shadow king

Hands callused, workworn lie idle, while the nation's taxes,
        suck citizens dry.
The council of law argues debates,
        cavorting jesters before the masses.

Merchant scribes make parchment people,
        who drain real life away.
The box of dreams sings a vacuous siren song,
          dissolving intellect into a superfluous glowing haze.

Ministers of power conceal secrets most arcane,
          In the inn a free scribe, flesh chilled lies still.
Dagger-slitted wrists are seen the death of a dozen cuts
          why are the cuts so clean?

Shadow king upon a paper throne,
          sits cloaked in ermine, jeweled dagger at his side.
Black-robed elders,
          move swiftly to steal magic from the land.

Though I  am Bound,
            tight by rhetoric,
I Break loose, from written chains,
            I draw my quill from its scabbard                                               
                          and engage the shadow king.