Good Poet, Bad Poet, Dead Poet

The ice is there —
It has to be to write;
A legislating sliver in the heart,

Obliged to share
A vent of irksome light,
A dart to spark the fire of passion’s art.

Words, to be sure,
Are nothing to the ice,
Our hieroglyphics neither burn nor grieve,

Sublime, piss-poor,
We pay a poet’s price:
And end as we began — dead men on leave.