three poems for the end of july

nothing wounds like words

nothing wounds like words
nothing pierces the heart
the soul
like a dagger
carried in place
of a tongue
be careful
with your weapon
you can maim
and cripple
with it

. . .

autopsy

I would rather
see one
miserable
pathetic
crippled
original
living
thing
than a
million
and one
perfect
dead
things

nothing alive
is ever truly perfect
but then
nothing alive
is ever truly bad
no matter
how wretched
its state

. . .

elegy for fallen comrades

you dove into skyscraper atriums
you held off a SWAT team
you drank and smoked
your ways into early graves
and if you wouldn’t
self-destruct, well,
mr. cancer
was there
to help you
along

now only two of us
sit at the table
and my friend
I fear
you are
dead
inside

© Buzz Dixon