Sixteen I die

I gazed upon the wall, the ivy’s sprawl unfurled, 
A living breath in me, a fleeting, fragile flame, 
Yet soon, a month will claim my frame, my world, 
For leukemia stakes its creeping claim. 
Sixteen I die, no worse than they who stay, 
The sun, the sky, the air — why not for me to hold? 
I hate death’s grip, its creeping, cold delay, 
Not fear, but rage, burns hot in blood yet cold. 

The world spins on, unheeding of my cry, 
Its beauty pierces deep — a gift I cannot seize. 
All crave to live, no soul less worth than I, 
Yet what is worth when death sets my unease? 
My truth I hurl, a spear none can defy, 
To God, to life, to those who’ll never know, 
At sixteen, dread’s my creed, my fierce reply, 
A terror sung, that all the world might owe. 

Life’s gift belongs to those who’ll soon be torn,
We cherish what we lose, what slips away,
My pain, my envy for the hale, unborn,
No hate — it’s love for life in sharp array.
Through screams of spite, of jealousy’s fierce sting,
A song of love I weave, a jagged tune,
Accept this truth, let your own whines take wing,
For I’ll not bow, nor yield beneath my moon.