Stoicism of a Sort

You'll be the death of me, Elizabeth.
That much, I think we both know.
I've gotten old. I may succumb
To your intoxicating charm. I may
Drop dead when we're in bed,
Or be shot down by you-know-who.
In any case, your love will end me.
That's all right. I can't conceive of
Better ways to go.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 91 times
Written on 2019-12-25 at 16:55

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