SHOULD IT KILL ME TO WRITE IT

Spilling blood upon the page -
writing my life in colour
sounds so melodramatic

And yet, after reading the suite
of poems dealing with that year
When darkness ruled day

And night was just more day
Framed with wings despotic
that fluttered wildly overhead

And speaking those words aloud
no matter how soft the attempt
Whispering even, if I was able

There is no denying
the echo haunting every corner
of my psyche; each part I
thought well hidden, secreted

Battened down, sealed away
Safe from damage, any harm
Wielding a pen might inflict ...

Pens or other writing implements
appear innocuous, quite innocent
But these instruments of massive pain

Are indeed mightier than most
Weapons, swords the least
Of them –

And words are bombs, landmines;
Guiltless appearing, simple
to the gullible, safe
to the careless, those unwitting

Or unwilling to face up to their
power; writing out life may
well be what ends it, mine at least

S.E.Ingraham©