I wanna be a poet's death;
extravagant to the touch.
Harvest me the honest intent
behind every typewriter key
the world has ever plucked
and I'll show you a realm
where words were often said
but never were they really felt.
I wanna pack a punch large enough
to withdraw the borrowed breath
you cling to like some misplaced
cliff ledge you happened past.
What good's a map when your compass
only shows four points of south?