I crammed the words in tight iambic feet.
"Speak in feet or hold your peace," so addressed
me then, a voice like mine‒but one distressed.
I speak in pain, of loss and rage that eat
my bones, at night; each day, fatigue my heart,
they twist my soul...and drain my love‒"Silence!"
said the raising voice relentlessly, roared,
"I guard your heart and soul. This pain you'll not
contain without my aid, your rage impairs
all your sense, so fear emotions unchecked...."
Silently out the words I let, freely roam,
atop my pain galloped we past meadows in rain,
the air had bled seventeen quarts of cherry tart,
the cawing ink (heaven-spilled, erased by time),
directed me, my face (tear-soaked), home.
