Poets serve language.
But doesn’t the artist walk among mirrors?
Perplexed as to why their reflections follow-
With the capability for reacting, but not understanding.
What dead eyed gaunt stares back at them?
What shatters won’t die.
Anchored tight to glass-
Dispersing into a plethora of voices
Aware of Rigor Mortis
That awaits red lipstick.
And the smiles that lipstick would taste.
That’s where we ought to be,
Waiting for a kiss.
A reason to establish cause
To express the indentations on chapped lips.