The wRite
mh   1/31/98


A constant battle rages
between those who would use swords
and those who would use
words.
To each a champion:
the killers a proven war-horse with blood
caked hands,
the thinkers a young poetress of thought-filled mind.
To each their strategic ground:
he a field of battle,
she a plane of 
paper.
Measuring the other they circle round:
he unsheathes his weapon and prepares to fight,
she withdraws a pen and makes ready to 
write.
He strikes first 
with
deadly swing,
she blocks with defensive verse.
The poetress releases an argument 
with a sharp 
point,
he dodges with ignorance.
The warrior proud
bombards her with balls of flame,
voided with a metaphor comparing them
to clouds.
She writes a treatise on the 
evils of war,
he desecrates
all treaties.
The war goes on:
second to second
millennium to millennium
to the end of time.
One can destroy flesh
with push of button,
the other can altar souls by swipe of 
pen.