Kerosene Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Good-bye my love,
you may not ever know,
that there was not
since Attila the Hun
a lover, worthy of
or longing for
the pheromones
of you. Just you.

It is the end for me,
the re-enactment of
infamous flight 8-eleven.
I shall be number one
who, unbeknownst,
to all the gigolos
shall dive, headfirst into
my final ball of fire.

So, will you think
of just one word,
to keep me by
your pillow,
at night.
It is spelled KEROSENE.

It's done by now
and I've been counted
as one of those
insurance cases,
unfortunate, of course,
and 'how could anyone...'

At least I said Good-Bye.
I never asked you, never would
the simple question 'WHY'.