Minutes to My Death

I can count on my fingers, though they move no more,
The minutes left before I leave this world,
And yet I write, in memory of the past,
Rejoicing in life, and what I did with it.
I see myself, the five-year kid,
Walking to school clutching his mother’s hand,
And I see her smiling in front of me,
Like a wavy line of the candle, always providing warmth.
I see myself as a boy of nineteen,
Fighting for a girl I never met again,
Blood on my fingers, bloodstained shirt,
And how I wore it with pride, in mark of her love.
I see the day when I bombarded the school,
Killing my own son in a bargain,
Wearing orange, the jail, the keeper,
I see everything, and in a flash it disappears.
I see my daughter, a small girl,
But then she grows up, and spits on my face,
I see the guy who fought me for her,
And reveled in the blood, on his stained shirt.
My eyes close often, I can’t open them much,
And darkness spreads like a cloth on my face,
I hear the sound of muffles,
And a grr-grr-grr,
Then the pay-pay-pay,
Of the ambulance I hear,
And they put me in.
I close my eyes, take my last strong breath,
Don a smile on my face, and am done with this life.

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