Boris Red. (№ 426567)

You come home from work
and reluctantly talk to yourself,
then reluctantly, then evil, then carefully:
- What is the fate, era, rock,
I'm just human and lonely,
as much as possible.
Snow is everywhere, and mortal longing,
and a coffin, apparently, board.
Kill yourself? Maybe not a nightmare, but
though there would be a reason, there is no such thing.
Suicide - at the age of eighteen
still okay, at twenty-two - vulgar...