A lot has been written about the exploits of death.
About what will happen when we take our final breath.
I think about it often at this point in my life.
On a daily basis, I encounter too much strife.
Like a skipping record — sorry to bring you down,
I know you’re tired of hearing my weary sound.
The world keeps turning without thought or care.
Spinning through space, without fanfare.
I do not know the answer or what my fate will be.
I only wish for someone to come take care of me.
A lending hand, a comforting voice, a gentle lullaby.
Someone here to stay with me, without a blind eye.
It’s hard to put into words these things that are real,
But something must be said so you know what I feel.
When I am gone and not alive, my exploits never told,
I hope you remember me as I was, before I grew this old.
A time before the tragedy of corrupted DNA,
When life was joyful and full of fun, each and every day.
But my nerves have had enough of the cards they were dealt.
My muscles, weak and tired, rest upon a shelf.
I feel alone, not afraid, in this great-big vast expanse.
My only wish for companionship is one last meaningful dance.
Selected essays, short works, and publications: bayliss.com
