By David Wallace
The pen that hoards ten thousand words,
seeks only guiding hand
To spill it’s blood on virgin page,
like entrails in the sand.
For thus the toil, at authors whim,
drives quill to strive for gain
That readers eye, or listening heart,
might understand the pain
The arteries of heartsblood,
splashed upon those whitened fields
Bear wounds and scars of battles fought,
where wiser heart would yield.
No truce sought, nor quarter begged,
the pen unlocks the word,
that Wielded in the skilful hand,
cuts cleaner than the sword.
For wiser heads and stronger minds,
have yielded to the might,
that bursts in fountains from the heart,
and bleeds with words of light.