Terminal Poem by Sheena Blackhall
Terminal
A bobbing cork, he lives a storm of days
No battle-charge could ever be as cruel
As wakening up to his realities
Helpless as winter cabbage, human fuel
For parasitic pain to chew upon
He is the ruin of a mortal man
All honour to his fight. He will flat line
With slow paralysis, that cumber band
That tightens, spreads, enshrouds him like a cape
A living coffin, voice drool, mouth agape
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/25/2024 1:32:42 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Up to his realities! Thanks for sharing.