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If there is no therapy, Which is a possibility, If it is nine months then finish, Then I conceive of my death As a parachute drop, Nine months down then finished. Nine months of floating down through Sun, wind, rain, daily newspapers And bowls of cornflakes, Down, at last, to the nausea zone, Vomiting and blindness, The last Tyrannosaurus dreams in the kingdom of headaches, The last discardings. Assured that I will not lose, At any stage in this descent, Myself. That I will still be me myself Right until the very end, The finish.. |
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