Nine Month Parachute Drop

NINE MONTH PARACHUTE DROP

If there is no therapy,
Which is a possibility,
If it is nine months then finish,
Then I conceive of my death
As a parachute drop,
Nine months down then finished.
Nine months of floating down through
Sun, wind, rain, daily newspapers
And bowls of cornflakes,
Down, at last, to the nausea zone,
Vomiting and blindness,
The last
Tyrannosaurus dreams in the kingdom of headaches,
The last discardings.
Assured that I will not lose,
At any stage in this descent,
Myself.
That I will still be me myself
Right until the very end,
The finish.