the smell of dead words dribble from people’s mouths like a heated soccer game. sweat perspires from the epidermis like a glass of iced coffee from a caffe on mars in the south pole. the smell of dead words is cold – like a young girl playing hopscotch in the middle of a snowstorm. or cold – like a husband hurting his Childs mother because she took the last sip of his Chateau Margaux 2009 Balthazar wine. the dead words repaint their wounds with marigolds. in hopes that the death of the words could reincarnate into something that may flourish. the red and yellow gems of mother nature breathe in happiness every summer. while the dead words inhale sadness every season. the dead words smell like an aching woe, a low spirit with buttoned down ribs, filling the words of what used to be a poet’s pens companion, with gloom.