Denied by the Years

It's the wear of my heart, the cold in my bones;
The kind of forsaken which deprives me of home.
It's an incurable sickness, a lingering dread;
A type of resentment for life by the dead.

Because my body is failing, wasting away;
And I gasp for the air which causes decay.
There is no more hope, no sweet allure;
No political figure claiming time for a cure.

I can take all their pills and follow their ways,
But I am still destined for the end of my days.
And I fear they are many instead of much less,
Doomed to live on half alive in this mess.

Will heaven not have me? Am I a burden too great?
Was my creation, by chance, God's one mistake?
This must be my burden plagued by my tears,
A denial of death by the proof of the years.