The velvet darkness of a tunnel,
Moist, steamy, warm.
Enveloping me within it’s sheath;
A scabbard to my sword.
Swiftly slipping through softness
And out into harsh, blinding
Daylight on the other side.
There is no order to a poem
No demands made or met
Paper and ink come without shackles
And yet, language has power,
A verse may hold you captive, spellbound,
Words browbeat you, leaving you raw and crying
Lead you to change your opinion,
Mend your ways, even fall in love.
Naturally there is a word for this,
Allowing us to pass sentence on such a construct,
Both praising and damning a few lines,
Summing up the power of written thought
In three syllables, at a stroke.
One dirty, descriptive word: