I shall die, we all know it

I am so gruesomely ill,

The prognosis a grim and bleak affair.

Nothing works the way it should,

things are backwards,

always misunderstood,

I'm dreadfully sick,

and nowhere to turn,

give me medicine,

give me herbs,

give me anything

to soothe the pain.

When the pills,

and the men in white coats,

give me their two cents,

and I am prodded,

and

stuck with needles,

drained to a pulp,

when I am nothing but bones

and taught skin,

my dry lips struggle

and

I say

ENOUGH!

I shall die, we all know

it is true.

For my fate will be

passed on

to you.

Then,

give me that elixir

give

me

words,

words to ease that mortal dread,

give me

metaphors

to make sense

of untimely birth

and untimely death.

give me

alliteration

so my tongue may dance

once again.

Give me

poetry

so I may

hold hands

with

death

and welcome

it

with grace.