Death of a Poet

The forest with its lush, Yellow, green and brown leaves. That falls angelically to the floor, From the dark aged moss covered oak trees. I gather the leaves and make a pillow, Where I may lay hidden and in peace. With the aroma of oak under a great weeping willow, A place where I will cease. The date is set for my departure, And the place where no one knows. It will happen during wintertime, I will lay there with a rose. A knife will I plunge into my chest, And hope for a slow, painful, cold death. As I think of my Juliet, And say her name with my last breath. A note I leave on a crisp white paper Written in my blood Explaining my reasons For the rejection of my love I do not wish to be saved Only by my Juliet But I know she won’t come looking Until she hears that I am dead. My intension is not to hurt her It’s just the rejection I cannot bear Life without my sweet heart next to me My Juliet, My love... My dear...