Where do the poets words go?


Where light meets the sky and
we hold our breath in
wonder?
The words we hold so close
so that they do not spill which
allows poets to suck them up in giant straws
and leaving them then
strewn about like endless epics
battles we never fought with words we carelessly let
spill from our arms
like water over a river dam.
So we hold them tight less they spill, our words.
But what of poets
without words to pull through straws
where do the poems come from?
Whose words do they carry about
afraid to drop?

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