Me, Too

I will not raise my fist,
Except to bleed the fact,
To color in scarlet your devious gist,
To smear your cunning tact.

A poison you have whispered,
In slow charcoal to blacken my fate,
I will knead it, till it is blistered,
And the truth rises to grate.

Inside my chest, a drum keeps time,
Of fears, furies, and numberless small deaths,
I will teach it rhythms, meters, and rhyme,
Until wounds learn the language of breaths.

I will remain forever unarmed,
Except with a lantern of clear things,
Parchments from archives, conscientiously farmed,
By a riverbank that tranquilly sings.

To mute the demons of your intellection,
No stones shall be thrown,
But those who watered your suspicion,
Will trample the seeds you have sown.

When my silence is louder than your deceits,
The devil will ascend in your mirrors,
And as its lips echo my receipts,
My revenge will be to pardon you and yours.

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Photograph Courtesy: Totum Revolutum, Pixabay.