Squeezing the tectonic plates
Of illness; creaking then cracking,
Groaning the white’ning bones
Which hold soft tissue stiff.
Slowing the link between
The mind and tongue,
Blurring the sense of what’s abroad,
Worse still, of what’s to come
Poisoning the so-called will to live,
Rotting the sight, the strength, the grip
On what we hold most dear,
That gilds, within, our possibilities
Death’s onset and oblivion,
The closing of that well set trap,
The end that is our nothingness
Forgotten by the others who survive.