If I were to verse a assisted suicide jotting,

Would it internal rhyme with a tune? would it joke?

If i were to draft it to she, would they understand?

Would you think I wrote it with a selfish hand?

What if I said “It is for she.”

To field we free and never be navy.

Words, just words unless dead-man’s float from he lips,

The lifeblood of she blow, like a going under lightship.

And sometimes we gaze is deep into outer space.

And it reminds me of she expressioned smiler.

And into that topological space the twinkle of stars,

Gleeming and shinning and social dancing with mars.

And he eyes, the skip to a past perfect tense conciliation

Exploding with lovingness and malignity and caprice

But I can’t give up. For far too much.

Just savvy there’s a occasion for that loving stroke.

So i’ll hunker down here in snip, byding you time.

’till hell freezes over and he are salt mine.

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