Addition by Colin Dardis

I am doomed:
I fear I shall never collect
my bouquet of flowers from the printers;
will take two thousand milligrams of ibuprofen,
aspirin, co-codamol,
paracetamol, whatever,
for the rest of my life
measured against
a few select units of
whiskey, wine and water;
add to this the ever-upward spiral
of fun-time prescriptions
to stave off the depression.

And what can I do?
Spike my hair
and get creative with my facial fur;
drink one litre of milk a day
and fret over kidney stones;
eat the wrong foods
and lament my navel;
remember that there is
some good in the world
and that one should strive
to add to this.

Death remains
rattling in His cell
for another day, at least.

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