a quickly tightened noose
to take his breath away
a second stanza slashed down his wrist
like a cold razor blade of verse
and his blood felt cold
too
without rhyme
reason
or meter
he held his pen
as if it were a pistol
against his temple
this was it
the one that would kill him
but he wasn't sad
and he wasn't scared
in fact
he was relieved
"If this is my last poem,"
he thought,
"at least it's a short one."
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