Biting Tongues: A Sonnet for the First Amendment

To speak of dark and wet and secret things,
gives rise to petered peckers and tapped phones.
Whether entwining limbs or skewering kings,
rough words must not be ground dull under stone.
Well-aimed barbs pierce the breast and bleed
crimson truths that pinch the loins and rend hearts.
The fool for love of country we dire need
not to whisper but to roar the hard parts.
To soak dry linen from an unstoppered flask,
let freedoms surface beneath still moist sheets.
Between the tickles, bites and who licks last
love and liberty reign when minds, not heads meet.
Salute the jester with middle finger extended,
and grasp the unknown as was first intended.




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