I'm merely a fraud
in the presence of true art,
a measly charlatan.
Alas, my aspirations
to acquire such pure talent
tells me that I may begin a fraud,
but I may earn fame later on.

"I will give you a choice, heads or tails?

I wonder why, at my death row, I pick the side of a coin?

"Tails."

The coin flips with the flick of the executioner's thumb and it flies through the air, an inexplicable suspense.

"It has landed on heads. Instead of a flogging with the Cat o'nine Tails, you shall receive a beheading."

I sigh, but this was inevitable. With my wrists burning from rope, I lay my head into the guillotine.

Foxglove, for insincerity.
Orange lilies, for hatred.
Geraniums, for stupidity.
Meadowsweet, for uselessness.
Carnations, for disappointment.

You planned this, didn't you?
I understand your loathing for me,
but your loathing for yourself
is amplified tenfold.

I will reincarnate
without dying,
I will cleanse my blood
of your poison,
I will birth
a clean,
wise soul
to replace the one
you tainted.

A huff and a puff,
tobacco smoke from a wooden pipe,
*** on the rocks in my left hand,
rather Victorian,
wouldn't you say?

In all the debris,
the black and white of the world,
I swear I'll do better,
I swear I'll sport colour.

1923,
leather cover,
French poetry.