Sonnet 11
'Twas not a night I have not thought of death
Coming to me in seconds of my sleep
With hands of skull and bone to touch my breath
And take it from the lungs thy body keep
Wherefore shall I travel upon thy touch
Eternal sleepless nights above or low?
To take away the lust of air is such
A path I am in fear to cross and go
In fear I fumble words that will not speak
Weak of disease, alone and old in age
Thy faith is frail and will more even weak
This soul inside has yet not freed its cage
The nightmare is knowing that death is near
And stencils of the pain that's drawn from fear
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