Thrust Home

I strive to smelt my feelings in a crucible of art, I plunge them into tears until the hissing starts; And after they are cooling, then I hammer them with zeal: A rapier forged of supple, double-edged poetic steel. I lunge it at my enemies imagined…usually, Or raise it in salute to valiant friends, so loyally, Or turn the weapon on myself, then finally To stab my pretenses, skewered with “Why me?”