If cancer strikes
and I’m writing my poems
give me a chance to publish them.
If cancer strikes
and I’m flying
to London
give me time to land and to live.
If cancer strikes and I’m laying down,
almost gone,
let me tell my mother I’m coming.
If cancer strikes]
and I’m sitting
with my daughter
give me a breath to tell her I love her.
Grant us a moment
when we see no end.
Give us the time
to think of last words.
Let us have lives
long lived.
without expiration dates
written across our heads.
Let us breathe
and enjoy life,
rather than fearing
our ending moment.
If I am to die within my prime
grant me goodbyes and farewells,
and long letters of love.
Just give me a breath
of my stolen existence.
Ω
Porcelain Prose 