No Poetry in Death

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,

I doubt any verse will enter my head;

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