post from yahoo 360 (01-15-07)
Assassination of Dylan Thomas
I have plotted out this assassination for a few weeks now, carefully planning the tools, method and defending my decision. His smug face taunting me, challenging, I am almost ready to execute my plan to rid my mind of him.
Lately, in tortured slumber, I hear his words savagely tease me. It's a violent game of cat and mouse, a game that has exhausted and confused me.
Light breaks on secret lots,
On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain;
When logics dies,
The secret of the soil grows through the eye,
And blood jumps in the sun;
Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15380
It's him or me, and sharp as words can be, I will purge my mind of him. "My Hero Bares His Nerves", and I, like the scared shadow in a room of regret, stand humble to his ability to strive always with pen in hand. A coward, I cannot face my reflection in the grimy mirror of morning lest I rid myself of him.
For no longer can I bare the failure, the indecisivenss of my own life.
"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light"?
I answer with a death knell and kill the one whose voice has inspired and tortured me so long
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