My Deathbed

(My Last Date: Date with Fate)

be it not of roses.
the thorns will prick my wounds,
gush my blood awash
and bathe the blooms like laundry.
(let not my crimson paint the petals.)

be it not of wood.
the grain will frame my pain,
sustain the throb
and sprain my frail body.
(let not my flesh grate the grain.)

be it not of steel.
the cold will make me quiver,
quicken my last gasp
and freeze my heart like ice.
(let not my chill steal the stillness.)

my deathbed, be it nothing!

let no bed cuddle me at death;
for no crib cradled me at birth.

– between
first-cry and last-sigh
is lull-a-by.

– between
birth-crib and death-bed
is passing-by.

– Chito L. Aguilar
(c) 2003


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