without the stain of ink

if my poetry is not
enough for the mass
of population to digest
then take of my body
bit by bit

mash my bones into
soft white sand

and bury my flesh
inside a toiling warm pot

without the stain
of ink on my hands
and the sounds of
words spilling off
my lips I am
dull and shamed

I have tried so
dear in my affections
to scrub away this grit
this dirt of harsh
green cloud from my
skin

but no hope of being
clean has graced my
presence

I am nothing but a
lost poet

a scribe with no pen

waiting while the others
run off to gather up the bills

printed from the rations
of paper stolen from my
skull

those
images
of color

the lanscapes
of texture that
have died and
been stolen

to those uncaring
for the art

only in it for the fame