The Invalid on the Ledge

The enemy is dying,
Not death, not the fear of death.
The enemy is living
Decay. Occasionally,
Death almost leapfrogs dying
And we say, "they never knew."
But the body howls and twists

At the least scent of the end,
Shying and bucking backward,
And so most of us are left
To nurse our festering wounds
And rot gradually away
While the birds sing in the trees
And determined children play.