The Writers' Circle

Treacherous are the words of man,

As barbs perched upon hapless tongues of malice,

Seeking naught but to do harm with coiling efficient grace,

Piercing that of naked hearts and innocent souls. 

Mayhaps twould be kinder still to pierce the flesh . . .

Stabbing with one twist of the short blade,

Rending quite perfectly pure hearts of old,

Tearing asunder at such depths none can fathom,

Leaving in its wake gaping and sucking wounds.

But wait, I will aid you in your endeavors to inflict . . . 

I cleave this useless organ from mine chest.

I give it freely as I always have.

Hold it within your greedy palms,

As the last beat wanes and sputters . . .