My Arsenal Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

I like to stack them tall
or end-to-end,
but then I dread
I'll find a dud I've penned.
Each syllable feels heavy
in my hand,
a sharp, slick sound
to pierce and then expand.
Like shrapnel
multi-meanings pack each shell.
A shot with match-grade words
set to propel incendiary sentences.
I use the slightly fraying phrases
as a fuse.
And oh, the satisfaction,
oh the fun to set with care
then hide the trip-wire pun,
or plant an ode or sonnet meadow
with no hint of hidden mines
of symbol, myth.
Believe me
no offense meant on my part,
but every bullet's
aiming at your heart.