The Contagion

Number One-Forty-Five hurt the most.

For if I could have saved them,

Why did they die, oh why.

If they have truly demonstrated,

Their existence to me, then me

Myself is out of sorts, not them.

Every suicidal opus is contagious,

Wanderer’s to suicide’s door,

Existentialists sweep the floor.

And then there is me, lost

At Sea, drowning under you

And me, my own anatomy.

Now desperate I hate my life,

Lend me a halter or a knife,

All my griefs to this are jolly,

Naught so damn’d as melancholy.