Poets can die from a blow to the heart.
A corporal wound would lack harm for a ****.
Prose is an armor of wit, and of skill.
One type of trauma can get him to smart
A puncture to **** him, love as the dart.
Pen as a hammer; paper an anvil...
The poems he forges in life are fulfilled
by death; serving as his own work of art.

Shot full of heartbreak a poet can’t rhyme.
It burns in his stomach like fire, or lime.
Watch him gutter and choke on all his tears...
Till horse, rough cries splinter away his mind,
And every hour goes on like bramble’d years.
Till he can’t finish a poem,