There are many things
I long to live and see.
Till, death makes
a dark caricature of me

let love slip in
behind the onyx eyes
pass the lips of love
too young to bloom
as I fall so fast
and leave this room
far too soon
before I felt
her loving boon.

For she is but fifteen
reading me
posthumously,
longing
like I did
when I was her age
for an artist
of older days.

Let fame come to
pay deeper dues
for the time I spent
was creatively used.

Let those amused
be elevated to
and if my death
is all that stands
between
the longevity
of my poetry,
then send me to
an early grave.