The poet’s bright soul is shattered
Darkness shouts through the cracks

Scarab enablers crawl – a crackling
of criticism, a skittering of fingertips –

Over the poet’s broken shell – poor, poor poet!
Her piteous sighs caress the scarabs like bees

In smoke – their kindness subdued , their thinking
Numbed

How many ways might a scarab threaten death?
How many ways might a poet turn accomplice?

So many questions fly on bird wings
(silent birds are wiser birds)

While scarabs secrete acid in private messages
Leaving scarab shit in undeserving mouths

How much influence might a poet collect from death
Threats and half-truths?

How many poetry-lovers does it take
To fairly hear all honest sides?