Poor Thing. To Die And Never See

I Am Out Of Practice At Living. You Are As Brave As A Motorcycle.

The Silence Is Death. It Comes Each Day With Its Shock To Sit On My Shoulder, A White Bird, And Peck At The Black Eyes And The Vibrating Red Muscle Of My Mouth.

The Heart, This Child Of Myself That Resides In The Flesh, This Ultimate Signature Of The Me, The Start Of My Blindness And Sleep, Builds A Death Crèche.

I Have Been Cut In Two.

Craft Is A Trick You Make Up To Let You Write The Poem.