Truant (Poetry)

They gave me six months max. — it’s almost eight
and, ’though I’m thinner, I’m not looking bad
I party still — stay out ’til really late
and reminisce on love — the dreams I had
that never came to anything. The pain
keeps me focused, waiting for the rain.

They warned it could be sudden — over quick —
a lightening strike, and merciful in that
I’ll never see it coming — feel the sick
surge of fear — the deathbed’s awkward chat...
Much better I should go out with a bang
than linger while redundant hours hang.

I write my diary, ink the days in fast —
amazed I’m here — surviving such poor odds
and kicking, none too gently, ’til the last.
Not over-keen to meet whatever gods
are waiting in reception’s graveyard cool
to tell me why they’ve pulled me out of school.