a poet\’s coroner

 poets are a myriad of things 
    i\’d never thought about a scribe
       as a coroner — the conceptualization
    of the scenery so lush with literature
 are books places where words go to die?  
    stand sturdy in your oubliette 
        contemplate — if each word on the entire 
           planet could be used once 
   single served — our oceans 
      would be polluted with all the players 
         from chicka chicka boom boom
   we would hold funerals for every
     letter conjoined to each other  
        vacancies would not prove 
           to be succulent for the digestion  
     funerals would be held 
         for all the wishy-washies
            similar to those of \’but\’ or \’just\’ 
    statements of power do not require
      words to make another human 
           being feel small  
       the complexity induced simplicity 
           is the subterfuge inside the mind 
              which seeks comprehension  

   dilapidated letters, syntax riddled
      with adhesions, dried crusted plasma 
            i wonder if letters are more resilient 
                than humans — absent of skin 
                      an entity which continues 
        in the onyx pitch void
             of indecision 
                      & cultured 

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