If I Were a Poet

As if one could have
either the taste of the thing
or the thing itself,

words deflect
the invasion of now,
the intrusion of here.

I’ve built a whole city
encircled by words—
Inside these walls
I live in a world
where only other people die.

Huddled in a shrinking corner,
I write every day,
because that’s what days are for.
Thoughts becomes words;
words become creatures with wings.
They fly away,
leaving behind an empty page.