The muse wages war
against my words,
to rattle them,
eject them,
and lay them bare.

The war rages on,
to shoot my words
into the air,
enabling a scattering effect
that’d make my control slip.

With its full weight
upon my restraints,
I’ll let the words go,
I’ll lose this love of them,
I’ll let them be shot,
sown in centenarian soils,
to be harvested again and again,
a hundred years and more
from all time.