The Device

It's to hurt if it's to heal
my stern and sensible advice
to skin laced with scarlet weals
the recompense for being nice

the dawn's own peculiar mercy
before the stabbing rays of sun
like words, spoken seared so tersely,
a blade to cauterize the burn
would be the least of courtesy
from the driver of the screws
the lash cannot hurt so much as the dirt they
spit in my face and my smoldering  wounds

before they shot me from the tower
condemned me, thinking i would die,
spoke to me things reserved for lovers
the prettiest of lovers' lies
tis not the words which have the power
the venom spit into my eyes
the arsenal of cutting weapons
of which language is comprised
an incisive pointy reckoning
is the sugar in my tea
silence is a far more cruel device
than words will ever be

Lacerations and abrasions
contusions laced with salt
it's true that on occasion
these things are my own fault

It's to hurt if it's to heal
no words, no sensible advice
won't serve me now to croon or creel
the silence must suffice.