A Death- A Poem

A Death

Words are dead.

Words are dead.
Hey, am I right?
Aren't they?

Words which madmen kill
With devil's interpretation,
Kill you,
They're also killing me.

Only the lingering scent like dust.

Barely we live everyday,
Toward words made automatically,
We reply automatically,
Being covered in jokes and irony.

Nowhere are the earnest words.
Nowhere are the humble words.
Nowhere are the true words.
Nowhere are the magic words.

Hey, am I right?
Aren't they?

Human beings think with words.
Such a thing is a lie, isn't it?
Thinking in images,
And yet killing each other somehow,
With that same image.

Words are dead.
Hey, am I right?
Aren't they?

Words that you could have used were,
I loved.
Words that I should have used were,
I regretted.
And time passes by with words.

Words that conveyed to me,
Were knavish.
Words that I sang,
Were empty.
That is why they are dead.

The narrative which had loomed
Has screamed because of the pain
Which has been torn apart,
Writhing and bleeding.

Eventually, the words flew up
As if they were drawing a brilliant spiral
Into the universe.
No colors, nor sounds.
Only pictures.

Remains invisible; invincible ephemera.

Words are dead.
Hey, am I right?
Aren't they?

Hey, I'm not wrong, right?