Your words now:
harsh, dry, sere…
searing.
These words, O poet,
do not want to reach out and touch you,
they do not want to connect with anyone.
They want to
slam and slay the broken spirit,
and rip the weary soul apart.
These words, ultimately triumphant
over your largesse and ennui,
burn and swat
at you like roasting,
wind-driven
desert sand
until you crack and shatter,
and they are free to heal your mind
and bind your brokeness,
to start anew.
Beyond Panic 