In the pen,
reservoirs of blood and reason,
sheathed the sword,
woven, covert shroud and hate-paled mask,
Fight the fight
with the ink that flows, risks treason,
drips and drops of love
from reservoirs to task.
Turn the tides
as moonbeams in the ether
on golden pond a liquid glow
from crimson ink,
Reverse the falls,
fill channels, churn the waters,
from reservoirs of pens
filled to the brink.