My poem asks for a shroud from me,
My poem no longer wishes to live.
I try to explain, but poem insists.
I leave the house to buy the shroud.
No one can bear to watch their own poem die before their eyes.
I don’t buy the shroud, I end my own life.
The poem, without a shroud, will not kill itself.
It will wait for me.
Waiting can keep anyone alive…
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