
It has been said, by
someone wiser than me,
that poetry is a wind from God.
Than why do I find
such beauty in
the rhyme of dirt—
Why do I listen
to the lonely voices
of dead poets—
Why do I want to
excavate their bones,
roll in them until they break—
or burn them in the
crematorium of my soul
to spread their ashes on my face?
No, Poetry is a forsaken voice
calling out to the wind
and hearing only an echo.
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