A teacher from long ago once told me
That I could write a bullet to the heart
As beautiful to the reader as any sunset,
As the highest, under the masters, of a wordsmith’s art.
I took it as a complement but on reflection
On the shadows that sleep
Around my cluttered, muttered and oft mugged room.
Should pin it on as some old medal
Or rather wear it as a bandage
On an open and forever bleeding wound?