Who spits molten lead as I?
Whose shivers leave stone teeth and staring eyes
Who bites the blood into prose and parade
Who paints the bruise into shades that don’t fade
Who lets the lightning in to translate the thunder
Who breathes in the glass dust to exhale the wonder
Who faces the fire to transcribe the burns
Who worries the lion to feel its great fur
Who walks under currents to see the sea play
Who jumps in the lava to rescue the clay
Who pines to feel pain just to write in this way?
Thank God, Myself gets to come along
Or the poet in my brain wouldn’t stay.