Poezja

With every Biopsy, a part of me dies,


A part of my body, a part of my spirit,


Like a rock beaten down by the constant drip-drip of water,


Slowly, surely, wearing, gnawing..





Variable is the location,


Constant is the anger, the worry, the despair.


A needleful of my Prostate, a snip of my skin, a scrape of
my mouth..


Death of tissue, death of psyche.





The bliss of benignity, or the malice of malignancy,


Which will it be?


Push the pause button on your life,


Don’t start anything new!


When, Dear God, when will that Doctor call?