i am the raven

no, not the eagle,

perched atop your heart.

heralding its breaking.

a twisting in the wind,

a whipping of its chambered

recesses. 

and you drift in

like smoke,

to and fro.

the problem with suicide

is that it is a

singular endeavor.

and it robs you 

of your desire to die 

upon these hills repeatedly.

over and over

and over

again.