Yet another

empty page transforms

before my eyes

into a battleground

as syllables charge

and over-run the helpless

virgin sheet.

Rhymes jostle for position

with ill-prepared thoughts

as the battle lines are drawn

across the white field.

I watch mesmerized

as wave after wave of iambic warriors

overwhelm the defensive lines

and rush down the page

in rehearsed mayhem.

No battle songs assail

the quiet of the afternoon

yet the clash of ink

on paper

is deafening.

My pen draws lines

through the wounded

to ease their suffering

as others take their places.

As the conflict escalates

metaphoric explosions startle

my already excited senses

as with closed eyes I watch

this timeless battle erupt

and take its shape.

Slowly the strategy becomes evident

as the words prevail

and the thoughts retreat

to fight again

another day.

Poetry is war.

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