We were too young to know any better
but we did it all the same
The lights grew dim as we read the letter
And the stars they slowly came

The air grew cool and wind was checked
With words we caref’ly aim.
Slowly we crafted our weapons. Bedecked them
With malice, no room for shame,

My friend and I, we wrote her death
Through anger, hate and blame.
The fear, uncertainty and doubt in breath
Twisted fiercely to deadly game

The player unwitting; her fate we decided,
Yet we did it all the same
In minds and on pages our victims reside
In plots and stories untame

We’re writers, we who pen the fates.
Who says whom we maim?
Our stories and our verses open heaven’s gates
And hell, too, they’re sent to the flame.

Our characters live and die with each stroke
Of pens on paper. And name
The muses do, the fates: who’s rich, who’s broke,
With poverty, with fame.

All victims we, the writers and the written,
Of Muses’ cruel game.
When we the writers with idea are smitten,
The written with love or hate enflame.