by Alexandra Pollard

Created on: April 05, 2009

Wires beep out monotonous rhythyms

like so many angry drivers,

and I wait alone.

A tiny room devoid of all color,

except for the physician's dark skin,

It's a skin of summer days and dry lakebeds,

and as his mouth cracks open

a cool stream of words sates my thirst.

I have three months to live.

And it becomes a quiet peace,

that only fate can bring.

Strange comfort in inescapable terror.

I am done,

and I will die alone.

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