Poets sing odes to me around
campfires, huddled in damp
eyes. You believe (science
be damned) that I inspire, rain
my brimstone on you, torture
you with broken loneliness.

You dip your timid, twitchy words
into me and hope to open
my snug cage. You cut red cards,
folded in half, hang and exchange
me, worship my image, and frame
me for your crimes. Wrongly accused,
bloody collateral victim, I pulse
like a timpani and spread
my streams uphill and down.

But I am
simple and innocent…

until I attack.