What is this putrid and
vile creature
rapping at my door?

In mangles, borne-
stricken with
a sore decay.

festered arms reaching
thin as blades in winter-
pocked skin draped.

Clawing at gowns
and masks
to no avail.

From such weakened stature
upon the floor
sprawled and lying.

Were ever you proud?

Are you of what John Donne
spoke when he boasted
“Death, be not...”?

Tubes tethered slack
Keep thous poison
from thy veins.

And dance on-
Lo! The broken glory;
rapping still in pain.