fingers itching for movement,
the subtle movement that will find sweet release —
the tension spreads up muscle and sinew,
arms marching ants of need crawling over crawl;
they need to scream aloud with a silent pen calling forth:
Sally forth! Advancèd, ho! Carve a chunk of history
out of ourselves and leave it naked and exposed on the page.
Ten soldiers chafing in their ranks
eager to thrust their weapons into my soul
and bleed upon a page.