In my hands the grip on life is weakening incessant tremor shakes my tenuous hold in my voice the words are thickening no longer resilient assertive or bold in my falling hair no flowers will bloom there is no lustre richness or growth in my head there is no room for pleasant thoughts or more to know in my eyes the irises are black darkened by illness, depletion and pain they can’t look forward only back to where I’ve been and will be again in my nose the smells are fetid ripe with the stench of sickness and rot in my mouth the taste is wretched appreciate what you have? I think not!
Oh dear, I should have included a disclaimer. It isn’t about me. I had been reading an article about the experience of chemo (and I have had many occasions in my professional life to witness the experience). It prompted me to try an empathetic piece. My apologies to you and anyone else who might feel misled.
poetography.ink 
Oh Sean, I’m so sorry you’re going through that. :(
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Oh dear, I should have included a disclaimer. It isn’t about me. I had been reading an article about the experience of chemo (and I have had many occasions in my professional life to witness the experience). It prompted me to try an empathetic piece. My apologies to you and anyone else who might feel misled.
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Sorry I jumped to conclusions. :) I’m glad you’re okay.
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