Sunday, February 19, 2012

TERMINAL DISEASE


A sickness has infected

The whole human race.

There is no hope of cure.

It ends only in one place.


That place is the morgue,

Then a hole in the ground,

Or reduced to ashes,

By loved ones scattered round.


The disease is known as ‘life’,

A killer without remorse.

It decides when and where

It will pursue its deadly course.


Medicine may postpone it

For a decade or a year.

But time will still run out;

The end is ever near.


Science may find a way

To forever give us life.

I’ll take the here and now.

I don’t desire eons of strife!

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