What Is It About Words

What is it about words that seems to make death safe that seems to make grief sacred? Can one imagine a gallery of paintings all of them self portraits of artists hanging themselves from beams their brains blown out like paint on canvass bobbing and bloated in the cerulean and lapis sea? Can one even imagine an artfair like this, scene after scene of weeping, life ending, not taken but tossed violently back into the sun. Can one even imagine regrigerators covered with computer paper and crayon of children jumping into sapphire blue? What is it about words that invites death, that makes authors bold to leave grief on a stranger’s doorstep an ice cold life swaddled in words asking them to nurse it because it cannot be burried?