The Bane of the Cancered Soul

There is no god in England (I learned of that this day) For when a man is stricken He has no more to say. He lies in expectation, The end to shortly be, Torment is blindly gazing out Through eyes that barely see. The blaze within his body Radiates, and yet, The chilling of his very soul Allows him to forget. With sonance all around him, The sobbing and the tears, He listens to so many words Whereas he hardly hears. And so, within his restless mind His hopes are all he'll keep; All he'll find to warm his heart As those about him weep. And in the darkness of the hour, When all is done and said, He sleeps the sleep that comes to pass And rapes his weary head.