A poet becomes self-aware

Alliteration, or metaphor?
“I shall” or “I will”?
Perhaps an image drawn from nature?
‘A twisted cheery tree, still pouring
it’s sweet, watered blood pink.
From black spine of wood-‘

Hold.
From whence was that cry?
That cry of mournful Mother’s tears
and shaking, black, funeral gowns.

I will bring my poem to them!
I will cover these wounds,
dry tears and give pain lasting wounds
from words- just words: my sword.

I place the sonnet at caskets’ feet:
soak up like shroud the tears-
they seep through and break the page?
another then- the same.

I give the source, the weeping family
a poem named for them. But the words dull. They read in drull voice the words.

I look at my poetry:
The ink twists in dropping blood
from child’s body raised from mud.
The salty sea of hopeless tears
erode and break through-
and fall on those I wrote to protect
from the storm.

What are the point of these words?
What can a page bind?
This pen does not slay the dragon-
Life. Merely records tragic history.

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