How does one distil death from a poppy?
Where does one get the barbiturates from?
How retain sense of self, and escape
The black-coated, white-coated guardians of doom?

Already one’s vision is blurred, and the voice
One strains to hear drowns in the ambient noise.
One’s fingers are swollen and clumsy and stiff,
And one’s uncertain knees make one glad of the lift.

Must we wait till the hands can’t get food to the mouth?
Till the bottom is wiped by a poorly-paid hand?
Till the bowels seize up, and the bladder lets go,
And the once dear ones dread the visit they’ve planned?

No “Heaven”, no “Hell”, no “God” and no “Devil”!
All words to oppress, to control, to constrain.
Galactic detritus is what we came from -
How gladly we’d turn into stardust again!