I thought that ashes couldn't re-scatter,
would stay still in a mourner's urn,
that the earth had buried all departed words.
Why is the ground giving up arguments,
letting them crawl to the surface like red ants,
pushing deceit again,
each phrase not sand
but a prelude to battle?
I thought the end was the end,
but as long as there is one mind standing,
I must watch letters crawling,
trying to sting and kill
or maybe just hurt so bad
one more time.
c copyright/all rights reserved/ 2010