A pen her only weapon, she brandished it at life.
From within her cave of thoughts, she used it as a knife.
Cutting out the sadness, filleting the pain,
she served them out on pages sacrificed to rain.
Let the press of water wash them clean again.
Prompt words today are press, brandish and cave.
Nothing in life competes with pain.
It wins the race time and again.
Compared with every other force,
it is the thing that stays the course.
All the usual distractions
are in the end, merely abstractions.
Just one reality remains.
Avoidance measures it disdains.
Though we make take great pains to miss it,
in vain we toil to dismiss it.
All else in life becomes inane
when its competitor is pain.