The white coat's news
cut his remaining days in half;
There, he wields a blade of fervid red
and with a deft hand he deals
but fails to cut his own throat.
Terminal:
a station, a term, an ending –
it's all palliative to him;
God, why can't it be palative?
What spread is God intending?
Sleep and sink,
cause that's all he can bear,
when aged aunts and uncles
clucking and fussing remind him
of wrinkles he will never wear.
Brave faces are scalding to touch
when it's he
who will miss out on so much.
Whispered words and shuffling feet
scream obscenities;
or muffle what he wants to think.
Accept and cherish – Hah!
What do they know?
He'll not see the clock face
or the numbers of his end;
what then is there left
for him to befriend?
He lies motionless
and wishes for an invisible coat
to shield him from his death;
He broods silently
and pleads, tears wrung,
for perennial breath.
But remaining days cut in half
have poor memories,
and though the fervid red cools to ash,
(oh, how they love him so)
all he sees is the hand he's dealt
being from the bottom of the pack. |
Submission Name: Stacked
