The Word Slaying Lady

Always
in the evening,
when I have beaten words to death
and there is incriminating ink
on my fingers,
I come out into the garden.

The birds cry all the way home
with news about the Word Slaying Lady.
The trees whisper to each other
about what the highest branch saw.
The grass sighs softly
wishing it was on the other side.

Someday,
I will be long dead,
my bones carefully toasted
over a hot fire,
my soul wandering aimlessly in search
of pen, ink and for God’s sake,
some fingers, please.

Outside,
the birds cry all the way home
telling fledgling-stories of the Word Slaying Lady.
The trees will admonish saplings
for standing on their toes to get a peek.
The grass will tell their seed
that this side is far better, because

inside,
a little girl furiously scratches
on yellow paper,
with inky black pen,
the mortal remains
of the Word Slaying Lady.