this disease deserves no capital letters,
it seeks to steal my life,
even as I live it,
take my voice,
and make it silent,
steal my fingers,
and make them invisible,
it challenges me
to a fight to the death,
fists clenched in mortal rage,
eyes searching for one more page,
heart breaking,
as I have so much more to say;
but the left arm,
which used to carry
a hundred pounds without strain,
is barely able to lift
a coffee cup without pain;
and often, while typing
I grimace,
and again stop and fight through,
because I have words
filling me up that I must
put down,
so that in a hundred years,
maybe someone will give me
a crown:
"what a master, was he,
in soliloquy,
that he took his last breaths,
just to educate me?";
the advent
of the torment
has rather surprised me,
as I always figured that my demise
would be violently:
I have been a rogue,
a most unspeakable devil,
and there are many men
who would like to send me to Hell;
but this discourse arrives
at an opportune time,
as I take this disease
and render it sublime:
I am guilty of what I have done,
but I humbly request more time.

February 15, 2010.

Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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