I leaned against the mantel, sick, sick, <br />Thinking of my failure, looking into the abysm, <br />Weak from the noon-day heat. <br />A church bell sounded mournfully far away, <br />I heard the cry of a baby, <br />And the coughing of John Yarnell, <br />Bed-ridden, feverish, feverish, dying, <br />Then the violent voice of my wife: <br />"Watch out, the potatoes are burning!" <br />I smelled them ... then there was irresistible disgust. <br />I pulled the trigger ... blackness ... light ... <br />Unspeakable regret ... fumbling for the world again. <br />Too late! Thus I came here, <br />With lungs for breathing ... one cannot breathe here with lungs, <br />Though one must breathe.... Of what use is it <br />To rid one's self of the world, <br />When no soul may ever escape the eternal destiny of life?<br /><br />Edgar Lee Masters<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/harold-arnett/
