'If a poet falls in love with you,

you can never die, '

I read somewhere.

But what if he burns his art, O foolish stranger?

What if he burns his poems?

Isn't that the most painful

kind of death there is?

You get a small taste of immortality,

before you're stripped of it;

before you're forced into being a simple

mortal,

who'll never be

remembered by anyone,

all over again.

I see nothing worse than that.