words are like swords – without S’s or points
re-purposed for prose, and smooth rhythmic joints

so instead of a dagger that ends in a death
the word is a gift, a life-giving breath

one does the deed, the other plants seeds
with wisdom (not anger) blooms fresh good-deeds

the point of the steel, is needless in whacks
the point of a poem, is to cadence through wax

as the staff will be rigid, prone to chip brittle
the word – like a river – cuts matter to the middle

so meander and weave; divulge and digress
this way has no point (save for the one, ending this mess).

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