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Terry Reeves Sep 14
Supposing that you didn't need to be terminal, is there a queue?
The cop-out brigade would be cashing in - all the others too;
we've had enough, not only illness but silliness and mindless,
lack of care, selfishness and all those who couldn't worry less.

Could reduce the population, no worry about copulation,
have ten kids if you want, economics, spell it with a 'C' decision;
clear the housing list, no one's bothered if you even get ******,
so convenient,Trumps kissed, played last hand in knock-out whist.

The queue is mounting outside that room in Switzerland mon ami,
I'm fed  up with my life, I'm going before you can sentence me,
how ironic, free up the prisons, no need for any more decisions,
although cemeteries filling, keep my ashes unless other visions.

The ultimate in democracy, free will, but others moaning still,
there's a waiting list, might die before I die - on Calvary Hill.
They're thinking of letting anyone join in.
Jeremy Betts May 17
Know that I know
Failure is unstoppable
The situation is never unlosable
Trust me,
I'm already the biggest loser you know
How did I get over here?
Where do I go from there?
I don't know
How deep can shallow go?
That's probably something you should know
Terminal velocity, terminal illness, hospitality's critical
There's only so fast ****'ll flow
Don't you worry though
I'll find the lowest low
Thee frequency is what's incredible
Watch me make the possible impossible
The predictable shockingly unpredictable
Knowing is half the battle
A cartoon told me so
Still waiting for it to help slow the fall though

©2024
neth jones Feb 7
it's all occupied with dark fumes of flatulence
      the bus hanger
          it's teething and earning      a low ceilinged thrive

regularly cleaned    the roof portal
   with a large drooping eye
          brags of blue sky
the coaches are idling
   fretful   to be burdened and go

elsewhere
the public urinals
there's a strong smell of iron
are the morning users dehydrated
  malnourished or ill ?
i feel a little flated

elsewhere
in the waiting area
   a neatly turned out teen
    wants to give their seat to the infirm
does not     and hurts inside  averting
(a public act of courtesy
   would   after all   be an embarrassing one)

attention back to the importance
my friend has ungreeted me
  i have wished him ease
  and he has passed between the cordons
amongst amiable cattle
  he pauses at the authorities verification
who   in turn
   tails them to load up their luggage
                    and become their driver

                             - goodbye my friend
22/08/23
A M Ryder Aug 2022
There's no easy
Way of asking
I already know
What he's going
To say but
Maybe he just
Needs to say it
So I ask
Him anyway
"Are you scared?"

Only smiles
And a patience
I've never seen
In the face  
Of someone
Who knows
That they
Are dying
Michael A Duff Apr 2021
If there is another thing beyond this one I shall meet it

Seeing beyond the futures of tomorrows not yet lived

There is a place I feel it I'll meet you there
I was diagnosed with a rare form of terminal cancer, I want to wrote my thoughts until I can't one day the right person will read them
Carlo C Gomez Mar 2021
~
this once sound vessel
succumbing to agony,
as if scuttled by
a siren at sea,

and in her heart
flutters and sunbeams,
she's not alone
in her dreams,

there's a torch light
with wings, dancing
about her wounds,

it burns of empathy,
but too numb to feel the pain
of her dying rooms,

hereabouts goodbye,
under the silk of anesthesia,
she whispers,
"blade of grass, then away we fly..."

~
Please,
Please don’t leave this way
You don’t know
I don’t have much time left
to stay.
Please give me a hug
Let me hold you one more time
Soon it will be too late
if it goes the predictable way.
Please.......
tears don’t come out
I don’t want to break this heart
Not yet anyway.

Shell✨🐚
When someone is terminal it’s very hard to share this with love ones! Harder then you think!!
Nico Reznick Sep 2020
After their separation, she used to joke
that they’d get back together when
- and only when - one of them
was on their deathbed.  Well, it
wasn’t quite a prophecy, but it did land
painfully close.

Almost fifteen years since they’d last met,
he caught a plane, got picked up from the airport by
a stepson, long estranged, who
brought him to the hospice.
Seeing her there, in a terminal tangle of tubes
pumping drugs into her veins and
oxygen into her riddled lungs, he said:
“But she looks exactly the same,” and
if that isn’t code for, “Yes, I’m
still in love with her,” then
I don’t know
what is.

The next day, he bought her flowers,
fretting over floral symbolism
and how his bouquet could be interpreted.
Their daughter advised,
“Just pick something pretty,” so he chose
pink roses, stargazer lilies.  Of course
she loved them.  They were
from him.  
“Do you remember,” she asked him, as leaves
fell from tall trees outside the window,
“when we were the beautiful people?”

The flowers outlived her,
if you
really want to
talk about
symbolism.
My parents
Right hand, labours on. Burdened
by the clay of her body  
A stubborn limb.  
In tempered skin.

Still, her left
Passed in Spring.

It's gentle palm
Curls open.
Leaning into the
surly revolt of her body.

Summer swirled.
A haze of sun.
And delicate
forget-me-nots

Autumn threatens floods.
Swollen clouds loom overhead.
We brace for bitter winds
In the Winter of her life.

And the rain pours.
And the rivers carve a map.

And the days pass.
Searching the blur of her body.
A ****** wristwatch throbs
Pulsing past a beating heart
Mocking mottled skin.

And the rain pours.
And strength settles into the seat.

A soft creak of leather
Warms the room.
whispers of my presence
Saturate the cell walls
of her coma.

And the rain pours.
And unearths an infinite truth

A graceful dance. She flees
The wreckage of her broken body,
Expired lungs exhale all suffering.
A parting gift.

And the light guides.
And she sets sail.
And the light guides.

A compass tears through swollen skies.

And the rain pours.
And the floods rise.

And the banks burst.
And the rain pours.

And the rapids
Drag me into the gutter.


By Anna Grace Du Noyer
A poem about the end of life. Influenced by the profound event of my Mums death and unexplainable higher existence of which I'm.now sure. And being left behind. : the poem contains graphic imagery of end of life experiences. Caution is advised if this could affect you negativly.
VineBabe Aug 2020
Swish, thump, swoosh. I jump !
How could I best keep the rope
From around my neck.
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