A poem
Despite society’s blurred lenses,
my cracked quill scribes indelibly.
Each feathered stroke, a battle tine.
They tried to dim this vision,
muffle its ringing refrains.
But truth bleeds onto the page.
Look closer at these weathered lines,
see the heart that rallies against
every effort to pitch-coat its shine.
My wordhoard rebels at being unseen,
unheard. These cries will not be stilled
by those who discount disabled discipline.
So I’ll strike the vellum again, again,
the corpus callosum’s pure, defiant yawp
until the whole world reckons its anthem.
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