Whose words are these, stacked so intentionally?
Not burning but ready to burn
Arranged just-so to ignite and release
A message or maybe just a cry
Into the unbesmirched.
A fleeting intrusion of heat and soot and.
Vast and pristine, I know, but maybe just this once
No, she said.
Words are not kindling
Not frisson to idly spare.
The very blocks of which our walls
keeping we away from you away from they
I am a poet but this is not a poem, or is it the reverse
Thoughts layered upon thoughts to hem a space,
Make a room to live
Still not a home, walls do not make a home.
If a home is independent of a house can a poet be independent of poems?
A turtle who does not exit his shell is
Such a person is anything but.
Fragility hiding in the bastion of his own recitations.
Whose words are the--
Hmm, maybe lacking intention after all,
The easy plagiarisms of echo
Profligate sound bytes we live to repeat.
Little squares of verbal flourish dutifully raised into all winds
Fiefdoms proclaimed and defended
To the death
Or whatever's easiest.