There is no need

to set your poem to the music of the heart, or let it sway

to the rhythms of the hurt, at least for today.

 

There is no need

for you to panic, or dive into the pyre of rhyme

Burn later, if you will, but for now, wait out your time.

 

Let it corrupt a little, breathe in the zones unlit

Break and crumble, and feed on itself, bit by bit.

 

For you see, the numbness is yet to set in,

And you, fresh-faced, dewy you, are yet to make sin.