Ink is a sorry balm for the bruises of injustice
Sharpened sabres rise
Cutting down the vulnerable and displaced.
We wring our hands
Wag our impotent pens
Judging deeds as Atrocities.
The heat of the hell-bent
Evaporates watery words
We fire our fury in the binary forge
Stamp it red-hot and smoking against
Our pixel-seared, info-fattened hearts.
Flinch, damned, deadened muscle!
Bear witness to the chaos
Shuddering in blue light
Converting disgust to data.
“The pen is mightier than the sword,”
Said no butcher ever.
Tell it to the daughters of Chibok
And the swollen corpses of Yazidi toddlers.
Present your gold-plated nib
To the mothers who wail
For sons shot out of the sky.
Ink is a sorry balm for empty arms.
We lend our words
They rend our peace
Tatter the pages of our freedoms
Trample the ashes of innocence.
Our outrage stumbles along, manacled
A captive in their glory parade.
They bask in our indignation
Goad the planet’s conscience
Fidget with waning attention
Escalate the evil.
“Brutes! Heartless barbarians!”
Hurled across the ether.
In city squares they
Volley with innocent lives.
We spatter ink
They spill blood
The heads of babes roll at our feet.
Ink saves no one.
But it is a balm for the world-weary
Sublimating the horror
A potent elixir
Load the pen with crimson ink
Compose a Song for the Slain
Etch in eternity
The epitaph of the wicked
In this, the pen is mightier than any sword
Ink, a balm for the bruises of injustice.
© Alison Stegert | Spilling Ink 2016 All Rights Reserved