Battlescripts

Truly awful writing aims below the belt

and strikes Nana’s burial plot underfoot.

Attempted nonfiction sagas where inner bloodthirsty demons wrestle

ripping mind from flesh

minus critiques or edits,

growling against evil slain.

But contenders stagger forward bruised and ink-stained,

perhaps better writers for tomorrow’s wars.

As a child,

word tapestries came effortlessly.

The source of writing soul as I played

and the sweetness in my dreams

traded drafts and rewrites

when I wasn’t looking.

But I could flood a battlefield with my tears.

Drown words from pages clean.

The defiled dare not come here anymore.

Cries a chorus that echoes the fallen

while I watch what thieves held tight now stolen.

Greed succumbs to giving borne of nature’s perennial fire.

Only mercy stays my blade.

Bodies and bloodshed the burden

of deciding who lives today

or died yesterday.

Dripping from pen

between reams of paper,

drenched in the futility of insurrections,

the warrior re-emerges,

ambivalent towards death or happy endings

with just a solitary oath to keep on fighting.

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