The Death of a Poet

I tried to climb the highest redwood
But my wooden claws were too brittle.
Sticks that stitched sonnets into my skin
Shattered into a million jigsaw pieces.
Squirrels laughed at my efforts by swishing their tails.

I tried to swim across the Pacific
But my cardboard fins soaked through.
Boards that bound the pages of my favorite books
Sopped around me like soggy, watered bread.
The ink of titles spread like eyeliner teardrops.

I tried to skim the surface of the sun
But my paper wings caught fire.
Pages full of lines written from my veins
Lit up as easily as December firewood.
The burning display left only mounds of ash.