Armistice

If the tongue is a fire

have I been playing with matches?

If the pen is mightier than the sword,

can my keyboard become

a submachine gun?

An insidious weapon

of mass misdirection

in a lukewarm war of words,

the battle of ‘you’, me & my psyche

a publicly displayed unexploded grenade

for which the Publish button makes an innocent pin.

.

As a rule I might try

to keep my powder dry

not pepper the page with little word bullets

just to feel their power.

But sometimes my forest of fiction

could act as flimsy camouflage

for 26 little white snipers,

and if something triggers me,

my fingers gather their ammunition,

and I find myself fighting

with my writing

and not for my King

but more for Satan’s whim,

Like the wretched mercenary I am.

.

So what do I do?

Get in the UN to inspect the troops

Or just full on decommission?

Save my arms for righteous causes

Or just wave a pixel white flag?

Then with the remorse must come

the painstaking minesweeping

of pointed point-making

and barbed wire lines.

But there is always some damage

that cannot be undone

and the wise will know that all of those

who wield their words as weapons

will live to eat them

just as they who live by the sword

will fall upon the same.

So that’s why I hereby swear

to hammer my words into a ploughshare

so that they who come to harvest here

may reap in joy

and that poppies may grow from this page.

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