This night,
Like many other nights,
I took upon myself to write
A poem entitled “Suicide.”
But the story I had to tell,
I knew, could not at all end well.
To take this tale, too hard to bear,
And set it down into words fair?
The thought fills me with fear.
For who could say if my lament
Might not itself cause the event?
If grammar is glamour,
And poets have power,
Can truth become lies
(Or versa the vice)
If I clap my hands and refuse to believe
What I must write
This night?
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