There’s no way to cheat, chew off the bone,
once it’s become infected.
The beading of cells, the beastly disease
will just not be rejected.
We pray and we cry for some sweet release
we try channeling thoughts positive.
But it is too late to speak, to breathe
and in the end, perhaps, to live.
Maybe the branch our lives dangle from
with cancer has to give way?
Or maybe it’s God’s wish, if you believe,
that it’s time to move on, not stay?
Another Sunday, another Sunday Whirl wordle. I have a sneaky suspicion that many of this week’s poems will be about cancer and mine is no exception. Cancer is, indeed, a ghastly disease, though it can – to some extent – be prevented (see the websites of AICR and WCRF UK) and, with the advancement of modern medicine, in an increasing number of cases even be cured. The ‘Big C’ is, perhaps, not as much of a deadly enemy as before, but it is still worrying that our own bodies can turn on us in such dangerous and frightening way.