My soul is an empty carousel at sunset...

Whatever stops is death,
   and is our death
If it stops for us.
That very shrub now withering,
   takes with it
Part of my present life.
In everything I saw,
   part of me remained.
With all I saw that moves
   I too move.
Nor does memory distinguish
What I saw from what I was...

To speak is to show too much
   consideration for others.
Fish and Oscar Wilde both died
   via the mouth...