i put the blade
up to my throat
how i want to see
the mirror choke

but there’s less red
in twisted rope
and less thread in a
mirrored smoke

so the blade it is
in fact a scythe
a sickled tickle
of death to give

a second smile
out-flowing with
scarlet streams that
i need to live

but it’s in my mind
i open my eyes
my knuckles white
my will defies

a coward, fool,
claiming wise
yet still can’t usher
his own demise

-m.p. 10/31/2016