I tire of forcing words out onto page,
In mournful tune, dictating
My woes for all to hear,
In subtle, read-between-each-line, tones
Merging feelings with what they
Want to see and read, allowing them
Their comforts, doing the job they ask
Whilst marking out the passage of
My untimely demise.
I cannot do what they want forever
My mind grows weary, my body sick
And I long, always, for the day when I shall slip away.