Killing Darlings

My pen is a sword of onyx, 
Cutting down oppressors
And my order is forward
Through the muddy slogs of revisions;
They are subject to my craft
And I scream out my intentions—
My armies charge at my wall of words
Through that field I hope to be known
As the great generals were—
Such as Napoleon and Alexander,
My city will be built
The triumph of the ages 

Words bleed from the hilt
As my characters fall,
They are slave to my whims;
Quietly, my subjects kneel
On the dark line of the page
Though they refuse to even whisper
For my name rests in a prayer
Like one of the holier saints
A priest; a protector; a poet;
The great kings of old.
Standing upon an empire of ashes
No more than a distant dream.