Why do poets read their words like this

A sonorous monotone

That kills each word

And leaves it,

lying there, dead on the ground.

 

And yet,

and yet,

Each word is

A memory,

A key,

A lifeline

To love,

To lives,

Our sorrows,

Our sorries,

Our miseries,

Our loss.

 

Each words dissipates

On your breath

Like purple

butterfly wings

thinner than the mist at dawn.

She loved you.

You’re fired.

Come home.

Home.

 

So sing loud, children, sing clear

Each word you make

makes you live,

makes you alive

In the eyes of others,

The yes of others.