I write. Ink flows as blood from my pen.

Meter and verse weapons I employ.

I tell my readers of love, pain, and joy.

My pen is a razor like none ever made.

It is perfection of the blade.

I never miss. Emotions are my stock in trade.

Fear this pen it will disembowel all in my way.

It is my sword and I wield it with practiced ease.

Slashing, chopping, and whirling as a summer breeze.

I use it to defend the weak and slay the enemy.

As a samurai of old.

I parry each attack.

Dying cowards deaths.

My foes never come back.

So let us gird ourselves for battle.

Sound the horn and bang the drum.

The killing fields are open, won't you come?

But as night falls on the battlefield.

And the wounded and dying cease to cry.

I retire to my tent to hone my blade.

Aching muscles, scarred hands.

A weary heart I bear.

I water the small eucalyptus tree.

That you gave to me the night I left.

The only beauty in this place.

I wonder at such a lovely gift.

Meditating on our love.

Forgetting the battle and my day.

My aide comes and removes my armor.

Attending to my needs.

I now use this deadly weapon.

Writing lovely words of love to thee.

A double edged sword I bear.

It can cut both ways.

Such a beautiful and useful tool is my pen.

I long for the day when I can be with you again.

I miss you and our home.

Longing to hold you near.

When can I be whole again?

Lord end this war for me.

But as long as there is injustice.

I write on......Knowing.

He who lives by the sword.

Dies by it as well.

An honorable death is all I seek.

So open up the gates of Elysian Fields.

I am ready for my reward.

I miss you lover and someday soon.

I shall come home to you.

Phil G. Inman Sr.

July, 30th 2010