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I can’t be sure if this sickness will pass,

with such limited beats left

I’m all ready feeling my flesh

decompose.

My body is withering just like

the petals of a rose.

I’d grip onto life, but my fingers won’t bend

they crack into dust while my soul

will not mend.

My eyes are lidded, it hurts to open

not as if there’s any pain left.

I’m too afraid to try.

If there’s no pain left in the world

how can I muster a fancy to die?