I fancy the pain of death.
Life’s responsive decline.
For I stampede, not an ounce of will is left,
To wrestle free in this fatal prime.
My allowance is every inhale,
That I repay with my sighs.
Please avoid to mistake my exhale
To be any more than my mouth’s desolate cries.
But to leave such beauty behind.
My loving cup of wine, sweet with care and devotion.
Would render me of heavens’, blind
With misery and grief’s retina dejection.
I cannot abdicate, for thou art with me.
Thy rose and thy bread comfort me.