You are not special,
Not loved,
Not painfully gifted,
You hang the leopard,
Of outstretched hand,
And spot on your breath,
Unheard of,
The manner in which it henceforth whrithes in decay,
The smell of the foul blood in vacant memories,
Vinear and salvation,
Hospital and surgeons,
We which left behind,
Have a look in the mirror,
A memory fleeting,
Like a child in the air,
Never dancing,
Or playing,
Or whooing the girls,
A child divine,
A child that died,
Let life be forgotten,
No forgiveness,
Or whimsy of heart,
Merely the cold record,
A battle ever closer to its natural conclusion.