the poet's words are terribly weak, and his mind so terribly sore and dry.

those words without luster do not pierce the thick act of life, and do not interrupt the rhythmic rotting of metro-corpses as they live lives thrice lived and lived over again.

words dulled and dumb, like word-plugs, deliver no pleasure, and those who try to force them into the tender pink cochleae of springtime azaleas are rapists,
the worst kind.

the poet's words are terribly few,
the volumes that once came forth, like falling floods, now spat with force from
fearfully pursed lips.

the words shiver and dissipate like glass upon contact with the broken floor, writhe flinch and eventually curl up into burnt remnants of clay "animals."

what once could have been a
zebra, dog, or sparrow takes no audible, tangible shape. and the pulse, if there is one, cannot be heard over the deafening croak of silence, for these words are as good as dead.