PenChant

a connoisseur am i of sculpted words  
that heal as balm and slay as sharp, swift swords;  
a penchant summon i per excellence,  
that withers not in front of pestilence.  
 
a chant have i for every kind of pain,  
to cut my loss and multiply my gain;  
i write the hell out of my tragedies,  
(my pen conscripts plights into parodies!).  
 
a chant have i for every kind of joy,  
elation, vim, panache to re-employ  
as cool oases in the desert place,  
along vexed corridors of time and space.  
 
a chant have i for every kind of ploy  
with which the enemy seeks to destroy  
the equilibrium of my consciousness:  
my pen destroys works of unrighteousness.  
 
a chant have i for every kind of need  
of souls that hunger, thirst, and weep, and bleed:  
my pen flutes psalms and lullabies and hymns  
to make of dreadful themes new paradigms.  
 
a penchant have i, fitting for the hour  
death’s cemet’ry life’s carcass would devour;  
a greater penchant for that Blessed Day  
when Peace shall grief script out of time’s buffet.  
 
© Copyright 2024 September 23  
by Clyve A. Bowen♫