When I wrote my first poetry,
I filled it full with my life's desire.
Words are me.
I was on fire.
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When I loved my first lady,
I filled my loving with fleshly fire--
And with my heart"s desire.
Then I wrote it alive in my poetry.
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When I felt my first great physical pain,
It was from fire.
My hand got burned.
Later I learned:
Nothing is worse than physical pain.
They didn't call such pain hell without reason.
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Could the universe really be so cruel and insane,
As to prepare for living, loving life, such nerves of pain?
And will that be the end of any life lived in vain?
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Or is the great light of life doomed to darkness?
Is death's bite concealed in life's kiss?
Does deep space void hear the singing choir?
Is the future all ashes from a cold dead fire?
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I once was pleasure.
But now I am pain.
My words cannot measure
My moons as they wane.
And the last bright moon
Will vanish soon.
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I am a plane,
High in the sky.
I see the grisly grief where I must die.
Far below.
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I will crash into the ground.
No one knows the sorrow of my loss,
Nor the joy of the great gain of all that I found.
No one knows my fear,
As I face the closing day I'll disappear,
And lose my now and here.
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No one knows my heart's heavy weight of why.
No one knows the love I have for all my fellow and sister people.
No one knows how much I care about the living creatures of the world.
No one knows the vast love I feel for my special friends.
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The music of my poet's singing lyre,
With love and life on fire,
Can only a few more arrows of song
Fire and throw.
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And I have written so much prose!
I have written so much more poetry!
No one knows.
And now no one will ever see.
My hand is broken--
By someone who hated me--
Who didn't even know me.
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Some say: Give the Devil his due.
But you don't have to.
He will take it away from you.
The Devil will really give you what for.
But what for, and why?
Every word I type now hurts my hand so much I very nearly cry.
I need to use both hands to type well and fast. 
As fast as I can before I die. 
I must struggle.  I have to try.
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Is there a cosmic gatekeeper,
Or someone keeping a celestial score?
Is the Devil in the details?
Is it really true that less is more?
If so, then--having lost most of one hand--now I have more.
If not, then I have less.
Which is it?  Guess.
I met the Devil next door.
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I have some cruel, crazy cells growing in my body.  Just a little fire.
But the fire has spread some more.
High stage, high grade--incurable.
And, sooner or later, it will fully spread.
Like a fire in an airplane.
First--terrible pain.
Then--the silence of the dead.
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My treatments turned into brittle victims the strength of my bones--
Preparing them for my attacker's rage;
So that he might break me,
By throwing me
On ground covered with hard rocks and sharp stones.
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I had crops ready to ripen; I had gardens nearly grown and ready to grow.
I had many more seeds of worth I would have been able, fruitfully,  to sow.
Now no one will ever know.
Only a very few of them can be brought to light and life, I now type so painfully slow.
My once burned hand is now broken like a shattered bow.
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I am a plane on fire.
Down I go.
Losing, in flame,
Decades of my gifts of life.
I have lost my struggle to survive in the battles of financial strife.
My health insurance will soon end--
Sooner bringing down the blade of cancer's knife.
Now, with my shattered wrist, I must add to the list of all my loss, this:
Most of my writings--lost to the eyes of the world--wiped from my name.
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I am a plane--
Still in the sky!
But I'm on fire.
A plane on fire must crash.
I cannot much longer fly.

========================


--by M.L.P.
aka PoetWithCancer, aka PWC, aka Mr. Poet
Written on Thursday, March 25, 2010 5:55 am PDT
Temperature: 54° F. (Feels like 54° F.) High: 74° F. Low: 54° F.
Fair. Wind: VAR 6 mph Visibility: 10 mi
Humidity: 29% Dewpoint: 22° F. Barometer: 29.92 in and falling
Sunrise: 6:36 am PDT Sunset: 6:56 pm PST
Copyright © 2010 by M.L.P. All rights reserved