If I were to be a written word Inked upon paper by a quill
I'd long to be a word unique
Not a lyric someone heard
No truism to sound fulfilled
Or modern sounding or chic
The word I'd seek to become
Something closer to trust
Because language is this
Hideous Babel is oblivion
Turning civilization to dust
We've welcomed the abyss
I dance with words, not linger
I embraced the catastrophe
Haven't enough hope to rise
Drawing a name with my finger
Through the dust of life's agony
A word I will choose is alive
To be anything else is irrelevent
Anything more would be a lie
“The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.”
