My mind holds a letter I will never let touch paper,
a light brush, it endlessly streams like a muddy river.
Oh, words do wonder, but I’ll chain this one forever
inside as a prisoner; nothing good comes from a concealed flame flavored with anger.
At worst, it burns; at best, the quill remains still until the ink smudges wider.

My mind holds a letter I will never let touch paper.
I’ll clutch my hands so hard it will never escape my fingers, even if my palm turns paler—
for a sin unrepented should remain unseen by any taper,
held in the shadow till comes the reaper.
Bury it with my body, I as a saint and the letter as an unnamed pauper.

From Instagram @firstlinepoets August project. First-line prompt attributed to @evaporatedfeelings.