The printed voice of my enemy

tells a tale of false woes and wails,

of splintered lives-

stolen and shattered.

 

Poisoned, smudged, inky pages-

a narrative neither uniform or blessed with truth,

engraved with prattle and malice.

This paper bound monologue,

filled with malevolence.

 

Yet I am learning to guard and shield,

to gather and fold my injuries,

put them somewhere safe-

away from urgent claim and demand.

 

My reflex for mangled rage

may in time become vague-

fading to shadows in the sunlight

and all this tuneless discord,

rattling in my head,

will even out to a single note.....

sounding the retreat.

 

 

 

 

from the spitting lower world