I think that before this fog rolls in
I’m going to write a song:

Not some teenage riot the kids will
scream along to but forget
the second the blood dries.
I want it alive in the mouth of
everyone. I want it decorating
the diaries of everyday.
I want nothing less than to have
these words rewritten forever.
But they won’t.

Not the centuries,
not the decades
will be kind to them.
These words lack the tooth
to survive.
Don’t have claw enough
to fight.

Neither are they so lucky
to be able to sit upon their own beauty-
aren’t the gilded kind that will be
saved by their lovers when the
cannons start.

They won’t be kept in safes and feared.
They won’t be brought out
held at arms length.
They won’t start fires
or wars.

These words
Just stare back from where they’re put.
They strive for nothing more than
to exist. To stand in awkward grace
and be ignored:
no enlightenment and no surprise.

These words are happy to be
and relish in everything they lack.
I’ve tried to make them move
but they aren't the type.
They come out hard and set.
I’ve tried to fight against
their meaninglessness
but I lose.

These words are rock bottom.
They are cold and steadfast
and all I have to do
to bring them on
is hold a pen.