Poison Pen

No, really. Would you
Write with it, knowing
That it would both kill

You, eventually,
But write everything
You wanted it to?

The real Faustian
Bargains are always
For life, not your soul,

This world, not the next.
If you write at all,
Dream of achievement

Thanks to what you write,
Making a living,
A killing, even,

Then you’re familiar
With the poison pen.
Don’t feel so special.

Those who paint or sign,
They know the poisoned
Brush and gestures, and

Anyone who speaks
Knows the poisoned throat.
Language was the tree

And rooted serpent,
Its poisoned ivy,
Clinging with curved claws.

Language was your myth
And myth’s embodied
God in your garden,

Strolling through, calling
Your name with the words
You knew would shame you.