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!