My head hurts, my eyes struggle to open
My heartbeat gradually fails
I sit and watch my hands transform my thoughts to written words
How quietly I deny some honest words space in my head
How desperately I cling to life scared that I might draw my last breath

Such is the state of man;
When sickness brings him to the brink of death he remembers how lucky he is to have lived
But when he is strong and healthy
He thinks himself immortal

A thousand Martyrs I have made,
All sacrific'd to my desire;
A thousand Beauties have betray'd,
That languish in resistless Fire.
The untam'd Heart to hand I brought,
And fixt the wild and wandring Thought.

I never vow'd nor sigh'd in vain
But both, thô false, were well receiv'd.
The Fair are pleas'd to give us pain,
And what they wish is soon believ'd.
And thô I talked of Wounds and Smart,
Loves Pleasures only toucht my Heart.

Alone the Glory and the Spoil
I always Laughing bore away;
The Triumphs, without Pain or Toil,
Without the Hell, the Heav'n of Joy.
And while I thus at random rove
Despise the Fools that whine for Love.

To be washed under a wave;
persistant. . .
thinking how sad life is

Drowning, excrutiating, breathlessly squeezing love out;
Showing "it"
pathways to escape like sand
through fingers, one grain at a time

Unredeemable time flying
and pushing, pushing all, to impending doom

Death and darkness awaits.

But ignore, ignore. . .
take no notice of this horrific pitch-black reality.
Afterall
there's nothing one can do about it except to
fear it

. . .

Impending doom?
how very cliche, how very awkward!
well atleast no one is left behind this time;

All life forms driven all at once,
like lambs to slaughter,
relentlessly by Death on its two light feet;
night and day.

But we are stubborn, we still laugh
Defiant, we still hope. . .

As we march on to this promised doom