I look down the shank of my pen –
this “mightier than the sword” menace that I wield.
It bleeds blue.
Strange, this wounded weapon.
Or perhaps not.
What is the nature of a pen’s might?
Is it not to write of wrongs and
so to score with a measured weakness? With
Satis est. This is enough:
To look to aim – not mar or maim – to
measure strength differently:
to weep words.