Punctuation Poem by Trevor Toews

The devil owns the question mark
He wields it like a sickle in the grass,
Hacks contentment, severs my resolve
With all the slicing questions that he asks.
The dot, for spite, he lights afire, and hurls
From a distance. I thought I was safe.
But needling darts of skepticism prick me,
Grab my attention, and I chafe.
Or, like a whipping, taunting boomerang
His crescent passes just beyond my reach
Each time he throws, I lunge in wild frustration
Straying, subtly, closer to the breach.
Farther from the path of light,
Into puzzling, tranquilizing dark,
He woos, he hooks, he skillfully entangles
The devil and his cunning question mark.

My Savior edits quietly
Slashes the sneering curl with crimson pen,
And calls me back, to rest in truth and promise;
To live in simple sentences again;
Sentences with periods at the end.