by Don Two
The tongue is a cruel weapon.
|Jen could not think through the pelt of cruel words;|
mind a miasma of heartache and hurt.
Willfully wounding someone is absurd;
think of an insult, go ahead and blurt
it out with no regard to wounds lasting!
There run the monsters with their mouths so crude,
summertime ruffians fond of blasting
until from cuts they see the blood exude.
They feed on the hurt, they lust on the wail
the tender soul offers in its misery,
wherein the lance of bitter words prevails
eviscerating hearts of decency.
And on that summer day Jen was alone,
cast in a chasm with broken shards below,
already within feeling shattered bone,
assaulted by the tongue—the cruelest foe!
The laughter of those miscreants so stark,
a sad indictment of the human kind;
Jen staggered down the trail within the park,
a whirlwind of their insults in her mind.
Beside her past the oaks the rapids churned,
above the sunlight dappled through the trees.
Inside of her the flames of anger burned,
and weighing pain compelled her to her knees.
And so it was on That cruel August day,
they tore her heart to pieces with words.
Writer’s Cramp Winner