Das Nichts Selbst, Echt?

Can you save the thought
From the words, the words
From the beast who wrote

In a hut, in trees,
Then marched from the woods
To speak for the lord

Of beasts who would rule
The world, at whose whim
Clouds of beasts would die

Like gnats in the woods
He’d set on fire? No,
You can’t. The lone words

Will save their own skins,
Split, hide in the mouths
And thoughts of fresh flesh.

The thoughts keep the stain
Of the beast, that’s plain.
It’s in the blood, blame.

But write past the end,
The closed rhyme—the thoughts
Crept back in the hut,

Like gnats from the woods.
Where no one can speak,
There no one is mute.