A poem about a writer's error in judgement.
His mind was quite sharp, yes sharper than ever,
at seventy two, his thoughts were still clever.
He'd spin with a quill, e'er casting his tales,
this poet, inspired, wrinkled skin growing pale.
He dined with elitists, the haughty, the rich,
reciting for hours, keen words to bewitch,
till one winter's day when the writer took ill
and a pain hit his spine like the bit from a drill.
A cankerous mass at the base of his spine,
with tendrils it crawled o'er his back to entwine.
No doctor or priest, could comfort old Jim,
who's chance to recover seemed ever so slim.
Jim sent for the chemist he'd met three months past,
to seek a solution, and put him to task.
"The pain has me reeling, the outlook is grim,
I pray thee dear wizard my life could could you dim?"
"Just drink from this bottle, down every last drop
and within a few minutes your breathing will stop.
Would you like me to leave, or rather I stay?"
"No no my dear reaper, please just go away!"
So Jim plucked the cork from the bottle he bought,
and downed it to finish the battle he'd fought.
The light in his eyes began turning to black,
as he felt his soul lift from the pain in his back.
Jim's body shut down, his breathing grew still,
from the liquid concoction he'd swallowed to kill.
Through tiny cold slits morning's light re-emerged;
seemed the drink insufficient for life to be purged.
He struggled to speak and to move on his own,
but his body lay stiff, like a cold river stone.
Not a peep could he utter, nor speak any word,
In that petrified state not one sound could be stirred.
So several hours later the chemist returned,
to check on old Jim, who's life had been spurned.
The pharmacist looked at his eyes, searched for breath,
but not being a doctor, mistook life for death.
Jim struggled and fought with all that he had,
lying still like a corpse, made the chemist feel glad.
"Jim suffers no more, my potion was grand."
he thought, as he grabbed up a ring from Jim's hand.
Some officials came by, to take Jim away,
Placed his head in a sack on that cold winter's day.
His back still in pain, Jim quite helpless to move,
did silently scream as the cart hit each groove.
The horses slowed down ... then came to a stop.
Soon after three men lowered Jim with a plop.
The singing was muffled as dirt filled the pit,
all the writer's acquaintances wept there a bit.
Buried alive with no power to stop it,
twas Jim's final story with nothing to top it,
yet never to parchment, his tale be written,
like thousands of others who likewise were smitten.