Ars Poetica

Every word is a bullet. Poet, this is your epithet for the trees.

words whose razorblade edges
stab the paper dripping in refined ink;
death--the astounding reek from
thousands of bloodied trees (bald clearings
echoing the pale canvas)

lack of epithets has a finger pointed at
you murderer gripped in compulsory atonement
by the gravity of the pen the thoughts that you vomit
every letter a bullet that splays your innards into whiteness:
this is an offering to the deceased
the more, the better
with each stroke of the wrist you give away
parts of yourself behind

poetry--
small deaths that paint you immortal.
(the noblest of suicides)