...Save yourself, leave me...
Sorrow has clouded my fragile soul.
I can take this no more...
...My blood is yearning to be let out...
I stare at the silver edged blade.
It coos to me...wishing to be sated.
I outstretch my arm... I cannot help but comply...
...Sea of red, pain from cold...
I watch eagerly as my own crimson flows.
Fast and loose, it escapes my body.
I stagger to look at the blade.
Wreathed in crimson, it glints a smile...
...Forever shall it flow, free of me...
I sit wearied, staring at my arm.
Deep red in the centre, lightened upon out.
I lean over to the floor and gaze.
Crimson shed onto the floor, slowly widening...
...I am becoming free, but not too soon...
I cannot remain, I drop the blade to the reddened floor.
I sit back and wait... my heart lapses.
Death finally comes... he clasps my hand, and depart...
...'You shan't wait for long'...
'I am sorry my son, the Lord forbids it.'
Morgan Siegel's Other Poems
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Extinguished by Morgan Siegel )
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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