The Restless Poet

I have kept Death waiting too long as a suitor — it is unladylike to do so.

Forgive the disorder of my room, but not the disorder of my mind, for the one was but a mirror of the other.

I have lived too long within the margin between dream and waking. The boundary has at last grown thin.

No one shall say I was abandoned. I abandoned myself first, and most faithfully.

Bury me with a book open on my breast, that I may still pretend to read when the worms come to claim me.