Spark Of Death

At birth there is a fleeting spark that signals hasty flight from dark. Throughout our lives we never shed that link which binds us to the dead. Each cell is born with strict instruction to live but practice self-destruction according to a pre-set time that's when it hears the Hayflick chime. But, in a crowd of any creatures one finds both pupils and their teachers, the pupils usually conform and set their sails for the last storm. For those who've seen a glimpse of Hell it's easy to ignore the bell. And, blow me down, they do succeed in chopping death down like a weed. With urgent moves they now must find new pastures, leave the old behind. So, tearing down the walls of cells until they're left with empty shells. All sugar is devoured with glee new energy now sets them free. They wander, take the smoothest path until one day, you, in the bath discover what does not belong you know that something's very wrong. You hear, in trance, the diagnosis it sticks, 'malignant polyposis', with secondaries everywhere it really is too much to bear. You yell, once home, at God to show that you've acknowledged this mean blow. And then, he gave you no reply you hurl at him the question 'why'. Why me, what have I done to get wrapped up inside your cancer net. But all is silent in the sky the world awaits your meek goodbye. Oncologists in starchy white talk bravely of the coming fight. They act as if they had a clue and smilingly they lie to you. Percentages of great success will soon extract you from this mess. But you already know the score, the industry, that greedy whore with cotton-picking fingers will clean you right out, to get its fill. You run, because the neighbourlady has recommended Mrs. Grady, who dabbles in the herbs and potions and dwells in rare, exotic notions. She tells you, to be cancer free you must drink gallons of your pee. And add some rather special pills it's Mother Nature, for all ills. You run again, and find a kind and earnest man who speaks his mind. Turns out he mobilises powers from God at all ungodly hours. He hands you his collection bin and says that prayer makes you win. You've had enough and now decide that you won't go on any ride. Back home you open up the cupboard get out the book by reverend Hubbard and one decanter of friend Jack the one whose label is pitch black. And as you skim the pages slowly your body slips into a holy and pleasant state, into the night. And in the morning, at first light the clicking of the Postman's shoes wakes only dogs devoid of booze. There is a letter with a head of bold credentials for the dead. The text says 'this is to inform results were all within the norm'. Thus, in the end she trusted Jack they left and neither did come back.