We scrape our dirt, store it In a jar and wait for it, hoping It doesn't rot. Poems are pickles, a decay Used to our advantage. A breath of life added to Something that's dying or dead. Incense sticks in a dirty Dark rooms that haven't felt Touch of a broom. Broken chairs before anyone Could reach to the noose. Empty roads engaging in a Small talks instead of losing Track of their path and Suicide notes deciding to Forget it all by becoming Paper crafts. The drowned, saved by a Lady's mouth to mouth. And the ants dancing in blood To leave a script that occupies Your boggled head. Looking back at the abyss When it stares at you, Bouncing back from the pushed Borderlines is what gives you wings. A breath of life to what's Dying or dead, art comes to you Only if you live off an edge.