I drink to remember. I smoke to forget.
Yet each man kills the
thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it
with a kiss,
The brave man with a Sword.
Some kill their love when
they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the
hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of
Gold;
The kindest use a knife,
because
The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little,
some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with
many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
Existence, well ; what does it matter? I exist in the best terms i can. The past is now part of my future. The present Way out of hand.
