S.A.Y.

You haunt me, dear poet;

From time to time, you appear.

Like a punch in the gut, dear poet,

Your sad end hurts - it's been almost a hundred years.

I mourn a man I never knew,

I dream of visiting your grave.

What made you end your life so soon?

What made your soul feel so scared?

The pressure of your russian fame,

Depression got the best of you;

I hope I never feel the same -

Be as afraid and end it all.

I, too, love my country, animals and snow,

Love writing more than life itself -

Only a poet would know

That a stack of paper truly is a life - a life dying on a shelf.

There is nothing I know better

Than the words - simple, yet true.

Nothing else can give me shelter

Better than my empty words.

You haunt me, dear poet.

From time to time, you appear

Like a golden butterfly -

You pass me by, and you're no longer here.