Poetry is a weapon, and should be used,
though not in the crudity of violence.
It is a prayer before an unknown altar,
a spell to bless the silence.
There is a music beyond all this,
beyond all forms of grievance,
where anger lays its muzzle down
into the lap of silence.
Or some butterfly script,
fathomed only by the other,
as supple fingers draw
a silent message from the tangible.