I fear I’ve overplayed my hand.
Perhaps you do not understand: this
Is all I have, all I
Am. There is no more, no door that’s
Closed and waiting to be opened. Rope
And tree: the end of me is the beginning of
We, unless (I confess, it is this that scares me)
Unless your candor spares me no place to lay my
Heart. To start and not to finish, to grow and yet
Diminish is a fate, not worse than death, but still,
This is my self of which we’re speaking. I feel the lonely
Leaking of a soul in need of succor.
Or am I
Just a sucker…?