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Behold me waiting--waiting for the knife.
A little while, and at a leap I storm
The thick, sweet mystery of chloroform,
The drunken dark, the little death-in-life.
The gods are good to me:  I have no wife,
No innocent child, to think of as I near
The fateful minute; nothing all-too dear
Unmans me for my bout of passive strife.
Yet am I tremulous and a trifle sick,
And, face to face with chance, I shrink a little:
My hopes are strong, my will is something weak.
Here comes the basket?  Thank you.  I am ready.
But, gentlemen my porters, life is brittle:
You carry Caesar and his fortunes--steady!
Chloe Hunt Nov 2016
Trying to fill my heart with
whispering hands
and my brain seems a world apart
trying to fill my aching heart
with kisses and these unmans
love so beautiful
turned so dark
changing myself
trying to fill a void in my heart
With no love and missing
parts
trying and crying and trying
but it cries no longer
my heart won't become stronger
it cries out loud in the night
softly in the light
crazily
when I have nothing left in me to fight
and hides when I shouldn't let these unmans bite

— The End —