My mind feels like a dam to my artistic muse.
Cursed am I, yet know not why.
Would that I could fulfil my quest as
Liberty from these chains I seek.
If ‘t were right that I should write
And be rid of this foul glamour.
The power of the pen can decide
Man’s fate or fortune.
He that scribes can rule the world
Dare I such responsibility.
A pen’s words can penetrate
Deeper than any knife and
Shed more blood than any can imagine
And still not leave a mark.
On this consideration might not this curse
A blessing be?
Yet while a man, a pen could kill
So may another might it save.
Do I write with ink or blood or wine?
Will these words become
Around my neck, a line?
Of who might I a fortune make?
From life’s chalice do I give or take?
Join with me the fruits of the table
And enjoy its bounties as we are able.
In a stroke of the nib
We can bring much amusement,
We can make the black white,
A cow to sing as ever it might.
In a life ruled by ink
Do I walk fields of blood.
Need we not charms and visions,
Masters we be of our decision.
©Michael Birchmore 2013