Thanatophobia

Oh, you poor thing! You poor, poor hideous

Ancient crippled thing! Once you were the prettiest

Maid, the handsomest youth! The slow insidious

March of death has brought you here. How piteous!

My heart bleeds for you, after a fashion.

I hate death and sickness! With fierce passion

I denounce this slow wasting, this crashing

Crushing, cresting wave of disability,

And in my deepest, most heartfelt compassion

I offer you escape from your senility.

Go on, I say. It is quite all right. Utility

Outlived, it is quite right to embrace the finality

Of the morphine drip.

                                      (But do you know how much I

Hate you for the crime of being fat?

Of not being perfect? I hate the disgusting flab

That flips and flops and slides across your lap

When you try to sit up in bed. I hate the gasps

Of weakening breath, of death. I want to slap

Your wrinkled, flabby face for blocking my path

With your hobbling. I hate you at meal and bath

And checkout line. You stand condemned by the math

Of usefulness. Keep up or else incur the wrath

Of my generation.)

          You shall not waste in futility

But railing against it you shall dare to die

And cease to remind me of my own creeping mortality.

Thus shall I cure you of death. When once you lie

In convenient, forgotten darkness, on the slab

In the morgue, (or in the assisted living facility

Dying by slow degrees of useless drab

Aloneness,) then I will forget at last that I

Too must die. 

Rather a dark poem, so here is a little lightness to wash it away. Enjoy!

 

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