He lays his hands upon the desk,
wooden and wheat.
The paper, a pale, tan skin, soft and silky,
is cut by his sword, wet from the blood of past warriors.

The letters leap into the lost waves of words.
'Speak!' shouts the starving man.
'Escape your entrapping lines, rhythmic rambles,
modern mumbles and learn to live!'

'For a poem is not words, wicked or wise,
dull or delightful; not rhymes, lost or lavish,
inspiring or ill; but a poem is truly grown from the tears of
tribulation, the feelings of faith, and the gifts of glee.'

'Emotion calls your name, soldiers of literature!
Emotion cuts your throat, fools of fear!
So open up your liquid lungs, hollow heart, and breathe!'
The man, now crawling to the fire, folds his skin, and burns.

And as the pyre deepens, Poe stares from his castle by the
sea; Shakur lays by his rose that grew from concrete;
Van Gogh paints under his starry night, and the poet,
now fading away, shall never let his words speak.