There is a terrible lucidity
Comes in the moments right before a death;
The blinded eyes will stare like they could see,
The haggard jerking of exhausted breath
Will cease, and seem to flow with sudden ease,
The limbs that struggled will no longer so,
And all the symptoms of the dread disease
Will seem to end. But with this hopeful show
Comes nothing else. There is no stop of pain.
It almost might seem cruel, but still compare
What was to what it is, and don't complain,
For pain is always easier to bear
When that which caused the terminal decay
Has, even for a moment, gone away.
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