He knows the hand by which he will die,
but not the when,
the angels whispered in his ear.
A flurry of white coats speeding by,
fervently sowing elation.
“All will be fine, you’ll see.”
Ardent optimism from those not condemned.
The progressive decline, the slow march down,
this disintegration.
Time is no friend, more bringing less.
The knowledge a curious thing, dividing him
between two worlds.
To savour it all, that which remains,
deceiving himself that change has not come.
Hiding from the fear, the dread of the descent,
the impending slide.
Few will know, before it arrives,
little does he desire, nor will it help,
the uneasy look, that sense of compassion.
He craves the normality of normal,
all just the same.
The sympathetic glance just driving in the nail,
ruining the time, the residue of life.
Until the last day, which will be of his choosing,
he will live by his own rules.
Too soon for goodbyes, that time will come,
for now he holds close this strange awareness,
this oddity of foreseeing life's edge.