Where Is Thy Sting

The hand, now cold as alabaster, the one that stroked my fevered brow, or applied the Germolene and plaster, is old and withered and lifeless now. Kind eyes, the first I ever saw, watched over my formative years, watched as I bawled and crawled and more, but now they shed no tears. Hair, once lustrous, that tickled my nose, and shone in the sun like burnished gold, framing a face that would shame a rose, now looking lank and grey and old. Full lips that kissed my scabby knees and told me, "There, there, that's fine," that could charm the birds right out the trees, now a rictus, no more than a line. There is no dignity nor comfort in dying, it robs us of all human trait and those that say different are only lying, to spare us contemplating our fate.