There is no time
to lighten my fail-fate-
oh how it hangs!
This damning bitter weight-
obscuring heat and even life in frost,
make me to dust;
the Great Health sorely lost.
Think of how
my fine shawl of skin
would flake,
and drift away like sandy sunbeams
on a cool spring day,
and how I would fall like snow,
without a sound.
And then think of how
my feckless form would melt
before my paltry prime was even felt.
That would be kind,
for I can only gift my face-
throw it to the starving rats;
that would be no waste.
Oh my-
what tranquil doom,
and in my bones it sure does loom.
