In due time I knew
This sickness would falter,
Abandoning the fight I put up with
For five years
I'd no longer but shot up from the bullets
The pure ugliness of it all
It's too soon, I imagine
Why should I feel this way?
Was He feeling generous this time around?
Where would I be if it continued to derail me?
Make no mistake, I live in appreciation
But I ache knowing others must suffer
When my best friend lives with death
Surrounding the shoulder like a sharp pain
In the joints that won't seem to leave
I shouldn't be stuck saying,
*At least it's not me
"How long is this posthumous existence of mine to go on?" - John Keats