Written down in black and white and so we
think that what is wrote is right.
As if the pen had honesty to call its own and
the scribe had no agenda.
How tender is the mind, which believes the written word is kind,
a mind I'd like to think was some bridge between myself and some ancestral link,
alas
this can't be so,
because I know the cruelty of words
and fools with nibs instead of teeth who bite with ink
and bring the bitten grief.

I write,erase and write and struggle through
the maze of right and wrong.
I shall and do intend to carry on
until the writing disappears or
until my fears are overcome.