the empty king

[alasanon]

the suffering man cracks his knuckles and sighs:
i tire of pain i grow weary i wish
only to put down my burden
his vanity howls -- i do not wish
for you to remember me as i will be
my fingers bony and skin peeling;
as i might be, throat a wattle
full of lines and hair loose
falling in thin strands across my deathbed pillow
remember me as i am now
not as beautiful as i once was but hale
well
alive
this illness, may it be hidden from you
until it is too late to be stopped
remember this face in the newspaper rags
the ones that burned in the flames
of revolution and ecstasy
and not the one in the hospital room
surrounded by doctors, pierced by tubes,
covered in a winding white sheet