A Dedication to Roland Barthes

This work has only just begun and already
I am afraid to end it. Each sentence
but a whip I flog myself with
while I bury the periods within each
line for fear they may poke out. Attempting to kill me
with their black holes. Bullets of darkness
begging me

'end this Enjambment madness." But I won't,
and it is all because of you
Roland Barthes. For I know when
I place that last period You will be lurking
there from your grave. Waiting for me to
sign my name, my last act, before you
jump out and grab me. Dragging me into
that grave of Literary Theory you dug
for yourself and all authors to come
after you. You cry out

"the Author must die!" as you
stuff your deadly words down the
helpless throat of the unsuspecting Reader. Framing
them for your bloody murder, as you take
your place amongst your victims. Whoever
would have guess that a literary theorist
would want to hammer the final nail
in my Coffin? Now I run

from my own pen as it chases me down the page, knowing
there is no escape; for everywhere I go
it follows me. I am running out of white road to run on
and the end I know is near. Have faith
in me reader. Please be my salvation, all you have to do
is trust me. Believe me
when I say this poem is not finished,
It is only the way I might escape this death...