Do Not Resuscitate
Sitting, whispering, pondering my fate:
What do I have to live for tonight?
The amber burns my throat on the way down,
Nothing as palliative as the blue lotus and a bight.
This dolor is constricting my throat, giving me its plight.
Shall I go down without a fight?
I am pierced by the spear of Longinus,
Inflaming my organs with no remorse.
My limp body emanates holy intoxication.
We allow this a fée verte of suffering to be endorsed?
Before my term is up, a voice speaks up, yet hoarse!
Has my life not completed its course?
Greeted am I by the glory of the goddess Isis
Sitting upon her lavishly displayed throne.
She bears the knot of her being,
She bears the the buckle of her roan.
Why am I not alone?
Shall I be hung or is it death by stone?
The divinity before me is displeased
That my optimism was conquered by black bile.
Isis, you fail to see I am not Ra,
To get me to say my name, you must do more than beguile.
I'm sorry, my goddess, my tears now fill the Nile.
Life has finally rotted all of my wretched spiles.
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