The poet’s bright soul is shattered
Darkness shouts through the cracks
Scarab enablers crawl – a crackling
of criticism, a skittering of fingertips –
Over the poet’s broken shell – poor, poor poet!
Her piteous sighs caress the scarabs like bees
In smoke – their kindness subdued , their thinking
How many ways might a scarab threaten death?
How many ways might a poet turn accomplice?
So many questions fly on bird wings
(silent birds are wiser birds)
While scarabs secrete acid in private messages
Leaving scarab shit in undeserving mouths
How much influence might a poet collect from death
Threats and half-truths?
How many poetry-lovers does it take
To fairly hear all honest sides?