The Last Time I Die

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I doubt my death will be a pretty sight;
I’ve lived too long to make a lovely corpse.
Most likely I’ll be in a bed, and might
be looking like the sort of beast that warps
a grandson’s dream to nightmare to recall.
My skin of corrugation will be cold.
My eyes will dry; my coat will be a pall.
I’ll be a spectral haggard to behold.

I wouldn’t want to touch me, or to scent
the fragrance my departure will release.
I’d spare you from the vision if I could.
But I won’t have that power. What I meant
will miss, I think. I hope on my decease
you’ll kiss my brow once more, and call me good.

This entry was posted in Aging, Family, Love, Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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