Cancer

When she looked in the mirror,

A ghost of a woman stared back at her.

Where was her colour? Her flair?

She had lost all of her hair!

‘Chemotherapy is no joke!’ she cried,

Surely not, her white cells fried,

She was petrified of infection,

Of which she tried to avoid subjection,

‘Hope,’ she could cling to theoretically,

‘Hope’ she said to herself pathetically,

In the mirror she looked for longer,

By no means was she getting stronger!

She knew she was on deaths door,

Time something she had no more,

She washed her face, got into bed,

The next morning she was found, dead.