I waited, with eyes rolled back, For the morphine to drive my poppies wild.

There in the plush bed or lush grass I waited.

I waited without fear as my tongue clicked, Parched with a thirsty memory in arid soil.

There under the sheets of dew I waited.

I waited with a sunken heart; mistakenly dark, Hearing each word surmising my demise.

There under the burning lights, I waited.

I waited, knowing my body was rotting, Paralyzed by my tools of care, There on my death bed I waited.

I waited, riddled with regrets and holes,

Bullets of an irreparable life,

The last opus,

The last poem, The last meal, The last letter.

As the final letter was etched in my epitaph.