They clutch their hearts, they gasp for breath,
They curse the fate that deals them death.
The years of drink, the years of feast,
Now call the reaper, call the beast.
The lungs that burned with smoke and fire,
Now crack and wheeze, now choke, expire.
The veins once thick with sugar’s sin,
Now clot and tremble deep within.
They beg for time, they pray for grace,
As if the years can be erased.
As if the nights of reckless taste
Were never theirs to waste, to waste.
I see them writhe, I hear them groan,
Yet feel no sorrow, none my own.
For every choice, a price is paid,
And debts of flesh do not evade.
Did they not know? Did they not hear?
Did they not heed the whispered fear?
That every gift the body gave
Was one they slowly, surely shaved?
No pity falls from lips like mine,
No hollow words, no softened line.
The hands that carved their own decay
Now feel the weight—and must obey.
And yet, when fate turns onto me,
When sickness claims my flesh with glee,
When death comes knocking at my spine,
I’ll not expect a hand in mine.
For every wound, for every sin,
I’ve etched them deep beneath my skin.
And when the price is due, I’ll stand—
No outstretched hope, no pleading hand.
YOU ARE READING
When Silence Wept
PoetryIn this collection of poetry, the veil is torn away, revealing the undercurrents of darkness that run through the human experience. These poems are raw and relentless, exploring the spaces where light fails to reach, and the truths we fear most come...
