Poetry

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.