poetry

These Hills; a poem

Who ever said that the pen was greater than a sword has never held a hand
Or never dropped a hand
Never wandered why it felt heavier without the hand.
Without your hand.
Running through these hills.
These hills that demanded a sacrifice.
You sacrificed me, left me in the valley.
So I fell in love with this land
In love with the things that consumed me
Like a mouse loving a snake as it sat it stomach
And I sat in the the stomach of hills and aches
With my hands and a pen and a sword.

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