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!