The Blood Of Love Welled

When They Asked Some Old Roman Philosopher Or Other How He Wanted To Die, He Said He Would Open His Veins In A Warm Bath. I Thought It Would Be Easy, Lying In The Tup And Seeing The Redness Flower From My Wrists, Flush After Flush Through The Clear Water, Till I Sank Into Sleep Under A Surface Gaudy As Poppies.

My Flesh Winced, In Cowardice, From Such A Death.

Everything People Did Seemed So Silly, Because They Only Died In The End.

The Thought That I Might Kill Myself Formed In My Mind Coolly As A Tree Or A Flower.

I Must Bridge The Gap Between Adolescent Glitter And Mature Glow.