February 11, 1963.
Oh, what exploits this day will hold.
The knob is turned in heroism,
I dare you to hold me back.
The metal leaves challenge me,
With bulges and blisters and buttons,
Coal giving way to bitter diamonds,
Chalky underneath.
The bars are testing me,
I laugh.
You think I don't know what it's like to be jailed?
Your defiance greatly lacks a tutor.
I hold the digits dear in my head.
The heat is thawing now,
I had kept both dormant often.
Only to ensure their readiness.
Letters and phone calls have lost their value.
I am the only person in this room,
In great company.
The gas is lurking closer now; its head is raised.
Placed in deep,
No turning back.
There are many hours left on the clock.
But my sundial is dwindling.
The irons are fast losing the argument.
For I can take them and bend them
Into words, and immortalize their stupidity in verses,
And they duck their warped heads in shame.
The light is fading fast.
The fourth has brought success.
You white-clothed devils cannot save me now.
Nurse your spirits through another�s wounds.
Yes, the weakness has set in,
The Achilles' heel of minds set on sin,
Glued to life.
Why did I ever deserve this vicious skill?
And brushes and stones and sculptures
Die and fade, and eternal nightfall beckons.
I inquire if anyone will remember me.
February 11, 1963.
