The White Plague

He trembles and coughs, he knows what's next.

The disease kills, but the remedy won't fair him better.

The doctors say it's for the best,

But they're just sending him to meet his maker.

They lay him down on the table,

He coughs up blood; it covers his chest, like a morbid bloom.

He remembers the stories and the fables,

But now he's in one, and the surgery looms.

He'll be asleep, but he knows what will happen,

His abdomen will be cut first,

With so much practice, they're good at cutting men.

They'll see lungs straining for air, an unquenchable thirst.

His ribs must be taken, he's too infected.

They'll try to give him one more breath,

But deep down he knows his health won't be mended.

Like so many others, his case will end in death.

A/N: Just so you know, I'm new at this whole poetry business, so, if you find it in your hearts to review, try not to be too harsh.