A Martyr's Cure Humans have flaws, and ailments and ills so little surprise we took our miracle pill.

When we found we could suffer In one another's stead A sick million could be healthy For the price of one head.

A few souls, the price For curing faults of the many. Cold, or fever, or other vice, Give to martyrs plenty.

Yet there is one flaw, That cannot be saved: The flaw of self-interest, That sends martyrs to graves.

They say to think of others, of greater causes and good. And what harm is another Ill upon more ill?

Cancers and aches Little pains and wounds A martyr to take Slow to the tombs.

Yet I did not ask, For these pains and these ills, I did not ask, To watch good causes kill.

Some ask me why I suffer Why I feel, causlessly feel For what is needed, and what is gone, and what is lost, For I am no martyr.

I am no martyr, I am not rare. Not one in a million, Harmed by care.

My cause is forlorn, It is selfish, not great Sickness cannot touch me, Though I'd wish it my fate.

The truth is harder: A sickness of heart.

I know my martyr. She sleeps at my side.

Her sweet lips are marred By unfair scars Her bright eyes are clouded With strangers' blinds, Her gentle touch is withered By joint pains and Lyme, But her smile is genuine Though gingivitised away And her heart is still pure Though beating red brine.

I remember the times We were young and carefree I remember bright eyes Painless and able to see, I remember when laughter Was not followed by cough I remember when mornings Were not pill countings-off I remember the winters Of snowmen, not flu I remember the summers We held hands in the dew I remember precious days and nights taken away When red on the sheets Were rose petal stains And the ring on her finger Was not bruising her vein.

My beloved, she cried, but accepted her fate Saw good in her duty Where I only see hate Turned to the world And opened arms wide Bracing against death Trickling inside. Perhaps I am selfish, Perhaps I am vain, But I see no greater good In her unending pain.

I know the future is short When she forgets bits of the past But in unwavered support I'll be there to the last.

We both know it is near, That merciful end. Though she can scarcely hear, Whispered comforts I send. After years and years, She might rest when she sleeps, I'll hold her in my arms One last smile to keep. The tremors are settling, Thin blood quieting down. Before broken black shrouds Close her ever-bright eyes, This moment of peace, Only breaths sound.

I'll not let them take her, Revive her once more, She deserves to rest, She deserves much more.

An illness I've hidden For days on end. A mercy unbidden, Common cold I send. Her breath catches, and she is over the edge. Between living death and she I drive this wedge.

Hoarsely, she whispers, "I love you." through once-beautiful lips, As we slowly walk to the tomb, She shares one last kiss.

Her last moment close, One ill upon ills. At last I see Good causes kill.