He Would Write Himself

he often wrote himself
the way he knew God intended
and on those pages
with head high in august sun
he strode with measured anger
sweat dripping with learned hatred
his pen was his axe
wielded with samurai swiftness

and he would write himself in tales
of imagined glory and he would write
himself in odes of princely wisdom and
he would write himself in songs
of unkempt loving and
he would write himself in
screaming machinations of feminine glory
and he would write himself in the way
she came with her toes curled in passion
and he would write himself tales of
how she cried in love with his words
and he
would write
himself

the way he knew God had meant
the days before fathers were tormentors
before mothers wept in silent indifference
even before he noticed that no one noticed
and wondered if God had one too many
on the day his innocence was taken
and he would write himself
devoid of tears and he would write
himself the center of attention and

he would write his tale and
was finally the hero in his own life
and the witty narrator in a bleak, grey story
and the endings, though full of sorrow
would
at least
be remembered

so with ink-stained thumbs
and blistered tearstains
he would right himself to
the way God intended and
find his strength in words and
breathe in his muscled power and
feel her strength that showed him his
and he would write himself for her and
he would write himself for his Father and
he would right himself on sinewed calves and
stare into the august sun and
know that God is always flawless and
in the knowing he would finally be right
all by his damn self

by his damn self with her

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