Unless I Pen You I Shall Not be Literate

A Sonnet

Like a sword that only cuts when scabbarded

Or a blind man's eye that sees because it is closed,

This, dark and luxurious, writes only when sheathed.

Pen is my king, so am I an army of one,

This scepter, this bareheaded fount of divinity

Leading me toward your realm difficult to pen

Etrate: hold firm, my queen, and bid nib release

Ink, command poem be writ, stroke slow at first

The link word by word to form one corpus, syllabary

Stretched between violence and peace. O the gift

Of learned tongue, the gestures across sheets to coax,

Then hurry oh hurry the couplet to the holy quick:

Let stand scandalous this sonnet, let fall

Marvelous: the writing of a storm before the calm.

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