How pathetic must sound my poems
to those in the fire,
my quavering approach
to the precipice's edge;
words of love with no love there,
just a discussion, you know?
a hypothesis, no substance or fire,
no whispering endearments
but cold, analytic, sad chatter;
those in the fire in sympathy
long for my defeat,
collected poems, accumulated pages
torn and crushed, crumpled into a ball
and fed to the eagerly awaiting flames.
O child of God, don't let words withhold you
from becoming silent ash and dust.