Black Smoke, And A Bucket Of Tumours. Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

Holding on.
Not been a good week.
Aches and pains.
Disappointment and more.
Writing a Will.
Editing the Will.
Thinking about death.
Do I want to wait,
or should I select my
own time?
Suicide is a sin.
Purgatory no doubt.
Holding on.
Back to square zero.
Last weeks' optimism fading.
No, not fading, rather, faded.
Gone.
Ended.
Hitting mental icebergs
and creating
desperate images
Circle of life.
Circle of death.
Cycles really.
Metamorphosis.
Even butterflies
expire from the
drama of living.
Flicker like smokestacks
that expel black smoke.
That is me. Black smoke,
and a bucket of tumours.