You dirge on and on. . . (caution, a bit harsh)

What is it that you give up by offing yourself?
The chance that things might get better, that’s what
The chance of seeing snow whipped up on a cold clear morning . . .
A warm sun on your shoulders when the dead limbs bud and blossom
Cathedrals of scarlet and yellow when the leaves fall. . .
That’s what you lay down

You spend too much time with that phone stuck to your head
You have too much brain son
Not enough sinew
not enough fiber

You dirge on and on. . .

What is it that you give up by offing yourself?
A moment’s azure-hued sorrow?
A scarlet drop of blood?
The marvelous delights . . .
exquisite pains?
For what?
For What!
You smart guys think too much

Lay it down boy if you must
But don’t expect me to endorse your choice

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

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