No Cure

He rolls back and forth on the bed,
In anger and pain, groaning

That he would almost rather be dead,
Complaining to me, to God,

About the cruel fate
Which deemed he must lie,

In such an awful state,
While eaten-up from inside,
Full of morphine, moaning,
And I, his young son, sit beside,
His bed, bewildered,

All the while wondering why,

Watching my love die...