ON CONTEMPLATING SUICIDE

am i too one
abandoned; like a
broken acorn tossed
into the curt empty
ache of a hanging
wind, drifting like
flags of fur towards
where know not i;
but how to continue
with a vainglorious heart
pumping out nothing but
the confused collapsings
of sin; when there is
so much unfeeling frowning
by so many depths of fingers,
i ask how again to begin?
to thrash one’s body
into some dumb abyss as
a means of retreating
from the famine nightmare fur
when all around seems actualised
Hell’s greasy pavings; and the
sky seems more remote than the
hair of ageing dreams?