I’m as distant as the meaning of an obscure poem. People hang on my every word, even though, my words drip

with poisonous cynicism. I make them laugh as I flit from person to person, hovering, my nerves on edge, ready to strike

I am a murder hornet, searching for honeybees to decapitate. They fall into my hands unwittingly, caught up in my spell

of poetics. Similes and soliloquies keep them captivated. One would think I am friendly, the way they swarm

around me. I feel like a queen. Maleficient, draped in black, a raven resting on my shoulder. I shoo them away

with a flick of my wrist, swat them down like a fly swatter. The people are pests, surrounding me, bothering me with

their quibbling and smiles, begging me to speak, to lay upon them, sonnets and villanelles and sestinas of words

Words, words, words. If I could not speak I would surely die