I should walk shamefacedly into this room,
Guilt immense weigh me down,
And wish, as something good,
That it's acid, not water, in the system,
So that, knowing so, even so well,
I should utter some word to someone,
Vague even, cause there shouldn't be,
None but me in this haunted house,
Except say incorporeal persons,
What use have I with good?
I should fill the tub, my heart,
Thumping, faster with time, excited
Longing for my imminent sweet death,
Death! Death! Where at thou?
Come deliver from this prison of life.
I should look around, one last time,
Curse my being, everything that lives,
Or thank whatever may be, for
Whatever may be,
Thus dip myself into this hot acid,
Burn, inch after another,
Dissolve into infinity,
Yet hope there is no hell,
Because, why burn twice?
No, it's but illusion.