The Problem That Happens

If I write a poem
The thing does die
The subject lives and breathes
Then dies

I create wonders
And exhaust the muse
The subject beaten
Bleeding and used

Words soar and climb
Words fly and spin
While the subject is dead
Black, done in

I never mean it
I never start
With its death
Intent at heart

I killed one once
Of eyes and hair
And now it's dead
No longer there

If I loved him-
I have no clue
But now there is one
I know I do

But will he be ruined?
Will he be dead
When every word
Is out of my head

When he's on the page
Stuck in my words
Will he be dead?
And my love purged?