once again a poet stopped his world and euphemism colors the word that tripped him curbed him urged him as if it was a mere dent in his landscape a hollow of his skin as if his breath was temporarily held by a lower pressure in his atmosphere the fingers of mourners and judges point in solace at this genteelism of the unimaginative of those who never felt the draw of the black nothingness that sucks you in and spins its deadly threads around your brain tells you tomorrow is no option the future is not yours to have