Shall I finish or break it off,
Suffer life till the end, though so rough ?
Mostly out of accord with myself
By my own
Or another's fault,
I have lived in a permanent hell,
Hauled over hot coals
Without halt.
Book of life...
Not just words, one believes.
Count the years that I've sat over it !
Now its pictures have yellowed a bit
Like the grass in September,
Like leaves.
My head's long gone ...
Yet with every day that goes by
The last chapter gets harder to write.
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