Poetry comes to me at odd moments. I wrote this poem when I opened my eyes Saturday morning. I keep pen and paper next to me for moments like this. Don’t ask, I have no idea.
Heresy – A Writer’s Trial
Typo, here on the white page
Reader bewitched, writer cursed
The execution begins.
Beheaded, hanged, flagellation of the pen,
Blood cleansed, Ink purification.
Punishment, stones casted.
Writer’s heresy exposed
Excommunicated from the page
Book, Bell, and Candle,
Reader’s assembly, Typo exposed
Writer is hanged on the page,
Ink turns to blood.