You have started calling hope a calamity
you think it will show you the setting sun
just to burn your faith
like Icarus’s wings.
And now when you listen
you think of the ways to leave.
You try to escape people
before they do;
‘that is how you save yourself’, you once said.
Maybe someday when the chords strike
you will choose to play your own song
or instead, walk out of the cafe
the coffee – too bitter.
You clutch Fahrenheit 451
like a machine gun,
you think words can cause disasters too.
The poems you wrote last Sunday
would die between the pages of your journal.
There won’t be anyone asking who killed them.
Their rhythm will speak for you.
You still think words can cause disasters.
So you write this.
Maybe you are listening to Isakov right now
waiting to escape,
or perhaps you are hoping to live the death of your words.