Hold The Scalpel Left.

Turning all my questions to cancer,
If I get the dosage right,
I could kill you on your million-beat impact.
I hang your head in the box of air,
Watch the morphine drip like rain into your ghost;
And still, they're picking up my body.
But no one knows what kill us,
And the aesthetics look like the dressings;
A ragged job well done to the nurse in the closet.
Hush, she won't tell a soul.
Even if we dig in our heels and keep screaming,
The cancers turning viral to the emergencies rate.