Death can be achieved
in one hundred words.
From vibrancy to soul decay
in a handful of syllables and lines
Everything to nothing
but food for the trees in the break
between shoddy sentences
and the difference between ink
and acid-free pages.
A more permanent silence
in the gentle ridges of the pulp.
And that is where I go to lie
in words that have no meaning
print and ink, chastisement
and recovery. Nothing at all
but that which burns as kindle
in the barbecue grill of the illiterate
man, some words and pages
catching fire. That is death.
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