It’s not for lack of trying
But I’ve given in to dying.
I’m 83, diseased and old
Without the strength to catch a cold.
On assisted suicide, my mind’s not split –
Where do I sign up for it?
If someone helps me finish off
What birth started, with death as soft
As pillows falling on the floor,
Or the last draught from a closing door
Why fear to die? More fear to live I say
If life refuses to go away.

© 2019 George Wicker