Maybe,
just,
these broken down
dusty
words
could hold me a little longer,
for I have been up since
what they call
man’s dawn
and I am so very weary.
Doctors and,
doctors
and,
doctors,
giving us
frowns upon tears
as they walk into bleached bellied
hospital rooms
with puppies and rainbows
painted on the ceiling:
you may not get a chance
to witness tomorrow
so say your goodbyes my dear.
Cancer wasn’t only
taking its time
to sneak in and out
of the brain cells in
my brother,
slow pain,
taking him away from me,
cancer fancied
killing me too,
as collateral damage,
though strange
no one seemed to see
my soul
drained from me
as I watched untold horror
unfold,
and then laugh at my
silent sobs in the shower.
And friends came,
two by two,
speaking tired odes of
too busy to bother,
scared of their own mortality,
I suppose,
thus rushing away
like the rain to the gutters
after a storm.
So,
my dear kind poem,
I write you out,
blessing your pain
and despair,
clutch me tight
in the everlasting night
until some sort of light
shines within me.
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