The poem sliced
The words dripped carelessly
from the pen,
scrawled on the page
heedless of the reader’s heart.
Slicing flesh
clean from soul,
leaving such a hole…
The poet knew the power
the pen contained,
only the words could remain.
For the poem sliced
into the holder of the pen,
just as easily,
if not more than,
those who laid eyes on the poem
in later days.
