One conviction for those deemed terminal
Holds that, however you spend your
Last months, you hang on to all of them,
Every moment. There’s no sense allowed
That maybe the terminal are blessed
To not have to choose to keep living.
The grass and scrub carry coats of frost
This cold, clear morning. Nobody climbs
Uphill from here; the skies so cleared
By raw morning splendor. Take warning.
Death loves you as much anyone,
Whether you hang on to breath or not.
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