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...
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