Remember those early days
Of existentialist angst
When suicide seemed a viable gamble
Confronted with unallayed solitude
Squeezed in indifferent greyness
Between infancy and adulthood
One evil known and suffered
The other only to be guessed at
Not to be desired in any case
If only it had not been so final
The Romans were true stoics
I proved I was no Roman
My first failure was to be born
The second was not to please
The third one was not to be loved
The fourth was not to die
To suffer was then my lot
Which I did to this day.
Lucette C. Bailliet ©
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