Cancer

The tumour

has spread the rumour

that humour is dead.

The cells shells

the truth like a mistress

on duty.

The blood

is the flash flood

consuming life

out of your soul.

Under the skin,

pain is akin

to terror.

The nerves serve

no purpose

in the grave.

When the brain

is set to drain

your emotions out,

you can only sit & shout.

When the air turns rare,

and every breath

turns into death,

you stop to care.

When cancer needs a cure,

and your intentions are pure,

you can and you will,

survive.