... man is eating the earth up like a candy bar.

I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.

There once was a miller with a daughter as lovely as a grape. He told the king that she could spin gold out of common straw. The king summoned the girl and locked her in a room full of straw and told her to spin it into gold or she would die like a criminal. Poor grape with no one to pick. Luscious and round and sleek. Poor thing. To die and never see Brooklyn. (Rumpelstiltskin)

Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.

Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.

Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.

Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.