The oak tree stands with one worn branch
of perfect height. This rope well used,
'twill serve its purpose for a year,
just as the forty-two before.
With practiced hand the knot is formed;
its loop a perfect fit around
my neck.  The bitter end goes up
and in the grooved bark, wrapped three times
then ******* firm. On tiptoe now,
a deep breath in, a snort, a sigh,
a firm kick of the tall wood box
I stand upon.  The rope, stretched, squeaks
as my full weight is caught and stopped.

Most only hang themselves but once;
I'm not as fortunate as most.
I am the ghost that haunts myself.
I know the what, I know the how,
I know the why. It matters not.
My hang-up looks me in the eye
and mocks my repetitious swing,
aware that every time I fall
another piece of soul will die.