The Cold of Death

*cough*
*moan*
*cough* *cough*
*moan*

*wheeze*
*moan*
*wheeze* *cough* *wheeze*
*moan*

*moan*
*cough* *cough* *moan*
*wheeze* *cough* *cough*
*cough*
*MOAN*

...

Silence.
Sleep?
Aye. Eternal.

I Wanted to Write a Poem

I wanted to write a poem.
I really really did.
I even made a bid -
For a word that rhymes with "poem".

In the end I must blame myself.
For no one else is here.
I cannot dodge this fear -
That all fingers point to myself.

Still, I shall endeavor not
To pain you with my doubts.
Come hell or high weather,
I should shirk my duties not.

If quality you find lacking
and how could you not
as meter ryme and art go astray.
I blame it all on this confounded cold!