Write On

LINES on a map,

Turns in the river,

Twists on a page,

Staying north makes me quiver.

 

The highs of the city,

the lows of the floodplain.

The bill in the mailbox,

absurd is the thinking.

 

Fixation it limits,

till the project’s complete.

I dare not slow down,

My brain’s dead on its feet.

 

But I stop to consider,

the freedoms in danger.

That truth and its telling,

Brings death from a stranger.

 

If you circle the wagons,

Or put down the pen,

If the inkwell goes dry,

The bastards will win.

© 2014

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