First Edit: On my 36th Birthday

[Richard]

First Edit:
On my 36th Birthday

I realized today I'm six years too late
to copy you.
You, reborn through failed deaths,
while I like to think of dying
as a far away dog on a prairie plain.
I accept

I'll never be like you,
there are no metaphors to describe
my uncut thumbs.
I'll still try

to understand you:
disillusioned with love,
burdened with family,
judged by tulips.
You, who transformed suicide
into a poetic device
by translating death's foreign language
like a Gestapo prisoner,

while I count the candles on my cake.


Original:
On my 36th Birthday

I realized today
I'm six years too late to copy you.
You, reborn through failed deaths,
while I like to think of dying
as that far away dog on a prairie plain.

I accept I'll never be like you,
there are no metaphors to describe
my uncut thumbs.

But I'll still try to understand you:
disillusioned with love,
burdened with family,
judged by tulips.
You, who transformed suicide
into a poetic device
by translating death's foreign language
like a prisoner at gun point.

While I count the candles on my cake,
aware they must be extinguished,
you live the only way a dead poet can.