Good to Be Alive

One day, the words began
To burn the books. The words,
Mind you—not ink acids,

Not paper chemicals,
Not the worms already
Browsing generations.

The words began burning,
Like prophets and poets
And full-of-it lovers

Had always said they would.
Not like gem-like flames. Flames.
And the words went dancing

Out of the screens and code,
Singeing the fingertips,
Scorching the coughing throats.

And the words were happy
In their conflagration,
Burning through their new world.