Dying Days of Rage

I will rage against my dying day,
till the day I can rage no more.
Tis the day I will die I think . . .
the day that rage will live no more.

It is youth that does not know the anguish of growing old
when bones and flesh weaken your resolve.
It only thinks of youthful pleasures,
with no cares for tomorrow.

I hope to accept my death so gracefully,
to welcome it with a lovers embrace, no less.
The pain of unrequited anguish and loss,
will hold no sway nor dominion over me.

It is compassion that will triumph (that is my hope),
I shall save the rage for when it is needed most.
Tis the least of burden's borne,
but when embraced too much . . .
is the heaviest upon one's heart.

David McCullough

Copyright January 7, 2007

I wrote the above late last night or in the wee hours of the morning . . . call it what you may. Many of my patients are older and dealing with the issues of failing bodies and a life that is shorter than longer. So this came to me, as poems often do, seemingly out of nowhere. However, I know that is not true. I am enraged myself at the injustices we all face, not only of growing older but so much else I have written about in the past. I am torn, struggling to accept what cannot be changed versus all the things that should be changed. The old adage of change beginning with yourself is an apt one in this instance. I won't say more here about that in this moment. I get frustrated with myself so much! Lots of talk, no action . . . and I despise that in myself. So many of us know what is right, all the 'shoulds'. I will take action, in some way, somehow, not only for myself but in hope of benefiting others at the same time.

Thanks for reading, be it even one.

David