This Won't Hurt a Bit
What craven wretch am I
To entertain such fancies?
Do I mould myself to fit?
Will darkness once more enfold me
When the cold blade of thought
Pierces that desperately sought?
I cry now as though I shed the last drops of my lake,
Yet immersion awaits.
Will I drown when the suspending thread snaps?
Copyright © 2001 Adam Lyons
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