is it the hour of my knife?
am I fortunate, yet
for it to steady its hand,
hone its blade on my rib?
the worthy one,
from Adam's own cage

let me be ground back to dust
and tossed
like the two lovers from Eden,
blind in the draff of fresh sin

ah, I sweat
with this life on the wind
thrown out like the refuse
will I let live?
let my anger run loose?
uncurl the collar of death,
let it wild from its noose?

tomorrows worries suffice;
I am reckless, let me abound, and then
let the end strike me twice over! but, again,
life beckons me in --
as the light rages
against its own dimming,
I sweat

if to die is to live,
if it is...