I’d rather die alone
in fields of green,
alone bar a blue sky
with soaring larks above,
alone with only wasps
buzzing idly by,
alone among the dying dead
that all had felt that living
was swell —
than alone in a tired concrete jungle
surrounded by stiffs in shepherd’s clothing,
tired townspeople presenting
through rosy glasses views
I would rather they did not
so stubbornly support.
I’d rather die alone in fields of green,
with dotted ponds scattered round
like tears from a goddess —
euphoric.