No poetry in death
I’ll find no poetry in death, I fear;
When I’m comatose in a hospice bed,
My life’s termination finally here,
No; I suspect I’ll be pumped full of drugs,
Intended to keep the anguish at bay;
My organs yielding to cancerous bugs,
My bones wrapped in skin of deathly pale-grey;
I’ll be sleeping, oblivious to all:
The doctors, nurses, my children, my wife,
And even deaths’ irresistible call,
Beckoning me to the end of my life,
Whereat, upon drawing a final breath,
I’ll find, I fear, no poetry in death
