Dead and dying I wish I were.
In so much pain, my body hurts.
Screaming veins, pounding blood.
I feel as though I’m made of mud.
It could not help.
It could not aid.
The way I long.
The bed we’ve made.
What’s your reason?
What’s your cry?
What’s the point
In asking why?
You cannot see.
You cannot speak.
My body limbers,
Growing weak.
What’s the hurry?
What’s the rush?
To think of this
Is just too much.
12-9-1992 Wednesday
Written by Gail Brookshire
gaillovesgodspoetry 