The poet writes to warm the chill
from that place he’d left in dreams.
He hears the voice again.
Anger boasts many kin
and you will meet them soon again….
He dips his pen in blooded ink
and writes of those he
might have slain in anger.
The poet’s back bears scars from spears
of those he’d thought were friends
and other scars of his soul from arrows shot
in dreams of vindication….
He fears the tug of sleep
demons of his sojourns,
yet fatigue breeds cowards
and he nods to yield his shield.