I fear for the day I die young
Imagine this brilliant youth, crushed
By the fragility of mortality
Imagine my drowning fear, rooted
In visions of a cruel death
(Premonitions or sacred wishes)
Rushing to the front of my mind
Hanging above my head

Imagine how they’d mourn
The gentle poet
Dead by 22
With nothing to show for it

I fear for the day my words reign true
For an artist who shows their scars
Is one who is not afraid to see them so
And suddenly I feel myself
          growing,
              growing,
            ­      growing
                       All too quickly.

And the rush of this fleeting youth,
Makes me ache with the chase of death