Death was diagnosed.
So he wrote
about it in
his
poetry and
prose.

Weeks
months
years.
Not even alone
is he able
to yield tears.

When the
sun
shines he
feels like
forever
and a day.
While,
death may
lurk
in literal
moments,
in the
heavy clouds
of grey.

His fight
has
gotten up
and left
him.
Reality
shanks him
like a
reaper,
so spry
so grim.

A day
a week
a month
a year.
He's a man
that doesn't
know,
nor even care.

Tomorrow
is the today
that bled
from yesterday.
And,
yesterday
is gone with
tomorrow
lingering
on the lips
of today.

If death
lingers upon
my lips
tomorrow
as I write
this piece
today?
I've lived
a life
for sure
but tomorrow
will always
be my
yesterday.