My Will

My will is a really strange thing: leaving stuff to you and me;
Giving up all my gainly years, and the ability to be free;
It brings about a real reality, about which I refuse to try:
That what is really happening, is that I refuse to die;

No matter what my condition, this piece of paper could start,
A focus on what now has passed, and a flavor to what shall part;
I have nothing of any value, excepting my person inside:
And that is my only possession, in which I have any pride;

;
My will shall be really short, because I cannot write,
Anything beyond what my senses sense, and nothing into night;
But give me a little pleasing thing, on which I can but touch;
My head, my soul, my brain, my mind, to be able to reserve that much!