Poetry has been my steady outlet since I was diagnosed. I've written hundreds, most of which are probably not so good. I also write a lot. Most of what I write about it how I'm feeling - it is a release to be able to put my innermost thoughts on paper. Sometimes I wad what I've written up very violently and throw it in the trash; also a great release. I love to read good poetry and stumbled upon this one, by the great Rainer Maria Rilke
Death
Come thou, thou last one, whom I recognize,
unbearable pain throughout this body's fabric:
as I in my spirit burned, see, I now burn in thee:
the wood that long resisted the advancing flames
which thou kept flaring, I now am nourishinig
and burn in thee.
My gentle and mild being through thy ruthless fury
has turned into a raging hell that is not from here.
Quite pure, quite free of future planning, I mounted
the tangled funeral pyre built for my suffering,
so sure of nothing more to buy for future needs,
while in my heart the stored reserves kept silent.
Is it still I, who there past all recognition burn?
Memories I do not seize and bring inside.
O life! O living! O to be outside!
And I in flames. And no one here who knows me.
