I Can'T Find Anything Left To Kill

It is always a startling surprise When the first fragile rays Of another sunrise Peak through the window blinds And I’m still alive. I’ve spun so many meditations of suicide Through my tormented mind That I feel like a weaver Of mortuary fantasies. From my early teens, I’ve been plagued With death and poetry dreams. I thought it would be over When I reached thirty-three, I thought it would be achieved, My self-destruction at the age Of Christ crucified. But thirty-three came and went And I failed to find my desired demise; Now, at forty-one I’ve become A hollow man, a foggy ghost Gradually burning off in the sunlight That shines for another And not for me… Anymore, I walk around half-dazed And I can’t find anything left to kill.