Ward D3: #333

The slush of fluids
gurgling, pumped by
clockwork action at
the speed of pain,
now a constant in
a frail pile of
aching flesh
and blood.

The intermittent vacuum
sucking, even breathing
the fumes of liquid
misery into a glass jar.
Toxins drain
a fragile pouch
-a dream deferred
contingencies were spurned
for plans built on
never ending summer-
they're running rampant 
on the inside.

A beep intrudes upon
this morbid symphony of
machines,
as a sad face
beside the bed
puts down a moan,
pushing a button
with all too
sudden ease,
deadening the nerves
that bring the jolt,
muffling the voice
that says 'I love you,'
covering the ears
that listen to music,
numbing the hands
that drew magic out of an ivory box,
and shutting down
the organs of sense,
thought, self, and growth.


Precise are these robber
barrons of the sterile room, the gears that
crowd out the flesh, they conspire on the outside
with the creepy crawly
tendrils feasting
on liver and muscle
on the inside.
It's a constant game of
push and shove
with these clever sneaky
selfish demons.

We plead for
a word, a signal, a letter, a sob:
Speak if you can hear us!
		Blink if you can see us!
Touch if you can feel us!

And out of the 
shadow of the valley 
of DEATH comes
a message by way
of flutter,
a flutter of the eyes
artfully synchronized
to the minute
and subtle
upward curl
of a mucous covered
lip. 

My hand strokes
her sweaty fleshy lonely hand,
I place mine in hers
and she holds tight.
Even in her silent
defeated frailty,
she holds tightly 
onto my hand,
asserting maternity 
to the last.