At words drawn

At words drawn

I am stuck in the cotton wool words

that wrap the knife to the heart.

Bloody cotton wool! There’s so much of it,

and the riders are afoot, with the reins

of their words loosed, spurred and flying. 

Oh dagger be drawn, and let me join

the fight for their hearts. Let my blood 

turn to ice so that the jewelled words 

can be chiselled from the frozen lake;

then I can press the rapier of the poem 
penetrating deep; no resistance at all
until there is, to the raw words.

Now let the pen be re-sheathed,

well oiled, running with their use;

bold, blooded, and wiped of the wool.