Loneliness and chronic dying: A poem 

In the languid mists of winter 

my mind is an unseemly hunter 

foraging the dead leaves and barren trees 

filtering the ideas in silken sieves 

Even if I think a little, I can still weigh a lot 

For the cold wind makes my lungs a heavy pot 

I find refuge in the noises of silent words 

Even the sky is abuzz with unseen birds 

I can feel the damp dew on my lips 

and the tepid daffodil-light on my fingertips 

I can break this wizard-conjure with my nibs 

And still feel unsoiled like a child in bibs 

I look into the mirror where eye meets eye 

And wonder at the thought of how lonely am I 

The thought of being lonely is very terrifying 

but not as grim as the prospect of chronic dying