Grey days. They happen.
Hope is a delusion, a stagnant
piece of decaying food. A fantasy.

Mirrors are emptied of glare,
and so I sit like a vessel
waiting for the next pill.

Grey heart. It pulls and tugs
with uneasiness as it beats
towards the next stage.

Like marching feet, the
dim pounding is advancing
towards unfortunate results.

Glasses on. Eyes open.
Twisting this or that
possibility in the head.

Looking backwards does
not convince, at all, of the
stability of what is forward.

Grey days. They happen.
Hope is a delusion, a stagnant
piece of decaying food. A fantasy.

Jesus loves me, this I know.
These words embraced in my heart.
This simple children's Hymn,
that really, is perfect in description.

I'm thinking too much.
      Worrying too much.

What will be will be.

This is true of me, and every one.

Jesus hears me when I pray.
This is His promise that He made.
I say my Rosary with Him in mind.
Hope for a miracle, but if not,
      hope it does not hurt
        when I die.

Dying.

Coffin and grave.

Solemn images that trickle
like leaking taps into
      my consciousness.
When the end comes.
When I expire from
      the land of the living,
I hope Jesus will be there.

"Jesus loves me, this I know.
For the Bible tells me so"

These words impress me,
which is as it should be.
One should consider
not only this world,
      but the next.

The coffin lowered in the grave
holds only the shell of what I am.
I'll live on, in what form
      I do not know.

Visit my grave, if that
is what you need to do.
Just know
I'll not be rotting there.

Jesus, I trust in You.

Holding on.
Not been a good week.
Aches and pains.
Disappointment and more.
Writing a Will.
Editing the Will.
Thinking about death.
Do I want to wait,
or should I select my
own time?
Suicide is a sin.
Purgatory no doubt.
Holding on.
Back to square zero.
Last weeks' optimism fading.
No, not fading, rather, faded.
Gone.
Ended.
Hitting mental icebergs
and creating
desperate images
Circle of life.
Circle of death.
Cycles really.
Metamorphosis.
Even butterflies
expire from the
drama of living.
Flicker like smokestacks
that expel black smoke.
That is me. Black smoke,
and a bucket of tumours.

Soft spoken words are heard
in the chambers of the strings
hiding
in
the
light.
The shining flags do not
flutter
in
the
thunderstorm.
Hanging wet and limp,
they drop failure
into
the
mud.

I want to remember
only the good dreams.
Celebrate only those
things that make
me smile.

Ahead lies the
limping man as he
deteriorates
into
nothingness.
Lying on a bed
trapped in his
goodbyes;
his focus on
the memories
left to him.

I will not be
the man I used
to be.

I will not be
strength
or
hope.

These I shall not
be able to offer.

Let him shut his eyes.
Let his skin bristle,
burn, evaporate
into the
sliding abyss
of what must be.

A faded picture is in my wallet.
Shows me young with 1970's hair.
I think it was a school photo?
Looking at it, I am struck sober
with how long ago that was.

Dandelions and weeds have
taken over the sanity asylum.
Morphine and other narcotics
is creasing my worrying head.
"They'll help you," I was told.
I question this medical wisdom,
for how helpful is being dulled?

A new normal has been defined.
A far different place from the
marching drums I beat before.
Now, I tap on the coffee table,
amazed I can even do that much.
Sitting in a chair, internally busy
with the picture of this boy.

"Young man," I want to scream,
"be careful of what is to arrive."
The tingling of cancer cells
are on the road you'll travel.
Failing thoughts that mingle
with the fading, dying sun.
Miracles of disposed relics
left on the table like charms.

Clutching Rosary beads and
mumbling the comfortable words.
I put the picture back inside.
Do not want to see it anymore.
He is me, I am him, obviously.
This crinkling comforter of cloth
wrapped like life around me.
His eyes are not as sad as mine,
this is what I deeply noticed.

Rain is falling.
This is an odd sort of winter.
Warm temperatures and dying.
Interesting combination.

Walking on the sidewalk.
Hood up, jacket zippered.
Sense of destiny propelling
my steps as I begin to
recite my eulogy.

Let it be said that
ice cream
is cold,
but
not
as
cold
as
the
autopsy
table.

Grass is still green.
Trees without leaves.
Solitary body tapping shoes
on
a
wet
grey
Sunday
morning.

Go on. Let the solemn time
flow like etched glass
into
the
veins
of
forever.

Humming a song to myself,
I change my direction.
Enough of outside.
Yes, I have seen enough.
There's nothing here
but the raindrops
and
the
man
with
limited
time.

The windows want washing,
the floor needs to be swept.
Dishes clutter the sink,
and my morning has begun.

The cat is playing, rushing
here and there in a frenzy
of chaotic feline energy.

I'm terminal. That is the
word I've avoided so far.

Coming to terms with
the finality of existence.

Terminal. Dying.

Dying. Terminal.

The phone rings and I
rush to answer it. Some
friend who wants to chat.
See how my day is going.
We chatter and promise
to get together soon.

Avoid the topic of the day.
The prognosis delivered
like a lukewarm pizza on
a foggy summer afternoon.

The chores are done. I feel
a sense of pleasure that I
can sit down in my chair.

Sip from my cup of coffee.
Drop an Ibuprofen into
my eager mouth, swallow it.
That will fix everything,
of that I'm assured.

Terminal. What an odd
sound that is to make.

They have provided me
a definition to aspire to.
A state of being that is
mine and mine alone.

As a boy I played with toys.
As a man I want to do so again.

Start fresh. Make different choices.

Renew and rejuvenate this
cancer ridden body that
surely does not belong to me.

Close my ears to voices that
say 'oh, I know how you feel.'

'No, you don't, ' I whisper.

'You who are indefinite
can not really understand
the message of a definite
time left to open your eyes.'

Terminal.
Terminal.
Terminal.

Isn't it funny how the sun
still rises in the morning
and sets in the evening?