She slays with her pen
Scarlet ink spurting out with every mighty swing
All around her the battle rages
Severed heads littering the snow white ground,
Staining the snow crimson
Beside her, two loyal beasts:
Alliteration and Metaphor
Snarling savagely by her side,
Hounds from the pit of hell
Her troops: the grammar nazis were the 
Elite of the elites: the crooked criminals didn't stand a chance.
And so, in a matter of minutes the war had been won
Silence, except for the drip drip of ebony blood
And the roaring of a distant thunderstorm.
She finally sheathed her sword, 
Her mark had been made.

We are all poets
In the same boat
The reason we write
Just to stay afloat
There's no other reason
Of that I know
For us as poets
To stay afloat

So draw the anchor
Hoist the sail
We'll all rhyme our way
Clear outta here
Sailing the pantoum oceans
With the sonnet seas
Casting our lot
In the poetic breeze

Steering riddling rudders
Across verses in waves
Until the very last day
We're made to walk the plank
As we are all poets
In the same boat
Trying our best
Just to stay afloat

Pale fingers intertwining,
a bittersweet hand squeeze. 
His thumb softly rubbing against her
cold, silken skin 

--But their faces!
Rosy cheeks, shining eyes
Two staccato heartbeats.
The wind whipped and tossed and screamed,
ebony locks flowing like the whispers 
in the night.

The horizon was near.
The ocean looked up hungrily,
muttering; tempting, teasing
Screams filled the dead air:
Elation, as they leaned in to embrace.

Finally, an exit out of this maze. 
Now we can truly be together
Now we can truly be free.

I'll find you on the other side, darling.

Two extra splashes into the now silent sea, 
Two soaring doves, carefree gemini.

Her image shuddered;
Streaks of ebony lightning against the backdrop of 
Cloudless, midnight blue
Muscles tensing, preparing
(A predator on the loose)
She pounced, back arched in 
Feline grace, emerald eyes reflecting the 
Silent spirit of a 
Battle-hardened warrior
Twisting turning mid-air limbs outstretched
Landing with a whisper, the
Imprint of her paw prints humming the distant song of a
Secret moonlit sonata.

She doesn't look up, not once.
None of them do. 

Not when the words hang
From the tips of their drooping mouths, 
Droplets splashing onto those
Neon screens clutched in
Sweaty hands, soaring and tumbling past
Instagram, tumblr, straight on til'
Status udates, and 
Timelines that tell life stories and
Remind them that 
"It's her birthday today" because
They forgot that they forgot last year too.
So they crack their neck 
(It hurts to look down for so long)
, lift a pale finger to click: 
"Wish you a happy birth--

She is behind them, but they don't 
See, or don't bother to.

So when those words falter, halt
To a stop because that pale finger thinks
It would be awkward, will wishing
A happy birthday mean...
(Interest?!) 
She sees, and keeps silent, because those words:
They have grown cold, hard, like concrete
Left to cool for too long. 
And when they close that white and blue screen,
Swipe on to more important things,
She picks up the hem of
Her faded dress and plucks off that 
One loose strand of thread that
Never seem to 
Stop. 

She closes her wings and fold them 
Back within herself. 

And on that particular night, 
On that particular date, 
She clutches a neon screen in her 
Sweaty hands, and count. 

1...

2...

3.

3 pokes.