I have sharpened my pen for moments like this, Filled the knifepoint with enough ink to poison anyone. And now that I'm wounded, Examining my pride like a tire leaking air, Hearing the sourceless hissing, I find only that ink is useless in moments like this. No bodies to stab—and no ears to hear it— Just the black of the barrel that holds my reserves... If I could turn it out and dye the world over Maybe trees would absorb the pitch-colored spew, And perhaps over time it would climb up the trunk And the trees would be changed…