Passed writers,
the detritus of dead avatars
puffs without link to any works, 
their site
is no longer, 
a short path
to the point on carbon tip,
the electrocution of ideas
leaves behind the smell of burnt hair,
a single wisp of smoke, a cowlick 
God's spit and thumb smooths down,
poets, though messiahs at heart, remain inert
long beyond the third day

cc: Chagall 2022