by Fiona Smith
Carcinoma he said,
A meaningless word in a dead language
In translation; a deadly purpose.
My body sits while my mind falls ever downward,
I wait for the world to catch me,
And for the clock to retreat to safety.
I tune into myself for signs of death
But I am painless with a smooth surface.
Breathing, being, beating; but breakable
How can this be? The brevity of life awaits.
Thank you but I shall decline my dance with Death,
Life is the handsome one.
This game is not for losing,
I will become a true athlete
For a race without a finish line.
Slam, bang, wallop! Door, floor, my core!
My body explodes while my mind is caged by disease.
Oh the injustice! Of an undeserved sentence.
But I am special, I am different, my life is infinite.
How dare Fate defy me!
He shall be imprisoned for his vile act.
And who skirted around me to change the rules?
Who decided? They didn’t ask me!
Drinking, diet, drag the fag, the criminals line up
Or was it you body? After all I’ve done…
On the doorstep, the guilt lies.
The world does not stop to notice
It is caught in happiness, busy in continuum.
Resentment grips me in a putrid bile of envy.
I am indignant to all reason.
The Bargain Basement calls to me
Selling varieties of cheating in the form of pleas
Which to choose? Why not take them all,
They are too cheap to reject.
And regrets are to be avoided
In order to barricade the truth.
God, Buddha, Allah, who will be my saviour?
At the pick and mix, I am happy with allsorts.
I leave with my shopping bags full of hope.
I happen upon a Bazaar with stalls of the alternative
What chance! What luck!
All money now spent.
Banners are erected to pay homage to given up vices
As I surf the net for a hidden miracle.
Just let me do everything first.
What am I waiting for, in this room of sickness.
My turn for more poison to journey through my veins
In search of tumours to do battle with
Causing a siege of pain and vomit.
‘You mustn’t give up’, they say effortlessly.
My attempt at irony falls flat
And keeps company with my new hairdo
Lying neatly on the chair.
My will has gone off on its own adventure
Leaving me here to pass the time listlessly.
I have pills to stop the puke, the runs, the pain.
‘Variety is the spice of life!’ Ah hello irony.
I shall scurry them away for one final showdown.
But I lack the energy of conviction.
There is no point or purpose now.
The small crack in my world is now too wide
I can stem the flow no longer, so
I build a raft to suffice my needs.
I shall make stops along the way
To destinations named ‘I always wanted to’.
Preparations are in earnest
As lists are made and ticked.
Soon the final destination looms before me
So I take to my designated sick bed
As the attendants make me comfortable.
Tears flow as goodbyes are said and
Love is spoken.
The sickness envelopes me now.
Then peace comes, tranquillity steps in. I am dead.
I am Dead.
© 13th November, 2010
Fiona Smith is a humanistic and integrative psychotherapist working in private practice in Bray, Co. Wicklow and Naas, Co. Kildare. She is currently training for a Diploma in Relationship Counselling with Relate Northern Ireland. She can be contacted on 083-4722411 or email@example.com.