Where is the beauty in a long, slow death
When life drips out in ounces, and the heart,
Exhausted, pumps with every tortured breath
With just that much less strength, and every part
Aches with a pain unbearable until
It has been born because there was no choice,
When everything is longing to be still,
Yet motion must continue, when the voice
Which whispers it is over is a scream
And yet with every breath is proved a lie,
A wish-fulfillment false as any dream,
Because despite the will, one cannot die?
It lies in dignity, I've heard it said,
But who is dignified when almost dead?
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