Death's Too Good
Don't humor me with flowers dear,
No honey lustred words of praise.
For death's too good, to be sincere,
To set my cinder heart ablaze.
If torture is my medicine,
It therefore serves to cure me of
An illness in comparison
That speaks of unrequited love.
If only you had held me true
My misery would be undue.
If only this,
If only that,
If only 'if's
Were matter-of-fact,
I'd still have dreams of purple skies
And terrors dipped in funeral songs.
I'd still believe those precious lies
And live in limbo all year long.
So pull that wondrous trigger, shove
That bitter barrel 'gainst my head.
For if you won't fill me with love
Then humor me, at least, with lead.
Copyright © Gael Attal | Year Posted 2010
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