Whoever compared the pen to the sword
knew what they were doing. Seriously,
today it's been a battle just to hold
the pen. Claymores would be half as heavy,
tired even before the fight began.
This white page is innocent. Pull the pen
along and watch the page bleed and again
hear the screams pierce a now wounded silence.
On the battlefield, sadistically slash
the wounded again, tracing, retracing,
widening gaping wounds. Madly drive the
pen left or right to the center of things.
Silence dies on the edge of a pen. It's
a battle just to hold the pen today,
because when silence screams, it deafens;
silence reborn in the form of blotted ink.
