Fatal Wound, By Brian37 (AKA Brian James Rational Poet on FB/META and @Brianrrs37 on Twitter)

This implement, my limb, that holds this pen
This companion, attached to me, my dearest friend
This composer, commissioned painter, if to meet an end

If not a word another to type, If not a sunset to come to mind
If not a forest in summer’s pine, if not a brook, the babbling kind
If not a snowcapped mountain peak, if not a couple for lodging to seek

If not for hearts, that pulsate faster, if not for passion, both are after
If not for ducklings that follow suit, if not for kittens that purr so cute
If not for stiletto blades that stab, if not for poison made in the lab

This implement, my limb, that holds this pen
This companion, attached to me, my dearest friend
This orator, spectator, observer, a sponge I must be

It is a part of me, I take the pigments of occurrence
I paint the hues in defiance, I hope to gain your compliance
The plotters execute, must be resolute, medicine arrowroot

If not for the Vesuvius’s dead, ghastly plaster, cavities fed
If not for cubists on the wall, if not for melting clocks that call
If not for dots that painted parks, if not for thinkers with fist to chin

If not for Oedipus, oracles begin, to tell him his father, he did in
If not for the drive within, if one were to cut of my limb
If one were to deny me my pen, surely it would be a fatal wound.