The Awful Truth 2
Is this the best little poem in the world, or what?
This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou would be conscience-calm’d—see here it is
I hold it towards you.
See you soon Friends!