Should time of my demise be left to choose,
procrastination be my loyal ruse.
And if the place be left to utter sway,
then name a place beyond the far away.
And be the method past within my power,
then lash me to the poison poppy flower.
Today defiance held as my decree.
Tonight I feel he’s coming after me.
I thought I heard a footstep on the path,
a press upon my door by demon’s wrath.
On window near a finger lightly raps.
In corner of the night a black boot taps.
But I’ll sneak out this room before the dawn,
and far into the woods I shall be gone.
RLJ - 2009
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