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