"He's dying"

Why am I so sure?

We've faced death before

you and I, and survived,

what's so different this time?

Words once spoken haunt my mind

"We don't give up."

Why am I giving up now?

Is it that then I could do something,

make the difference.

Now I can only wait for the inevitable


"He's dying"

There is no chance,

this time no reprieve.

And all I want to do is -

What? - what can I do?

Could touch your hand to let you know

"It's okay buddy, I'm here."

But a wavering thought

restrains my hand - I'm scared to touch

your fragile frame,

suspended in comatose sleep,

waiting for the inevitable


"He's dying"

And at the end

I'll mourn his death.

Grieve for the loss

of my one true friend.

But not now - now there'd

"Better be something I can do"

To make the difference.

I need to make this promise, Starsk, that I

will seek revenge

on those who cannot wait

for the inevitable.