For Pops
1st February, 1993
He's dead to me,
But not to the world.
They keep hoping,
But I can feel his cold.
They say he feels no pain,
But I see the cold sweat on his lip,
The fine, grey shadow of torture,
On his face.
They pump him full
Of blood and air.
Then draw it out,
Again,
Into a plastic
Gutter.
Pushing and sucking
His flesh,
Awaiting doctor's orders.
And I count the minutes,
Selfishly longing for relief,
Because I want them to
Put me out of my misery.
He was beyond the misery,
Beyond the presence of
Death,
And I could only feel
Its crawling, slimy claw,
Clinging to my shoulder.
And now it's as though,
I never even saw him,
Dead.
Poetry by Esti D-G
Read 593 times
Written on 2006-10-19 at 01:11
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1st February, 1993
Death Is An Insomniac's Dream
He's dead to me,
But not to the world.
They keep hoping,
But I can feel his cold.
They say he feels no pain,
But I see the cold sweat on his lip,
The fine, grey shadow of torture,
On his face.
They pump him full
Of blood and air.
Then draw it out,
Again,
Into a plastic
Gutter.
Pushing and sucking
His flesh,
Awaiting doctor's orders.
And I count the minutes,
Selfishly longing for relief,
Because I want them to
Put me out of my misery.
He was beyond the misery,
Beyond the presence of
Death,
And I could only feel
Its crawling, slimy claw,
Clinging to my shoulder.
And now it's as though,
I never even saw him,
Dead.
Poetry by Esti D-G
Read 593 times
Written on 2006-10-19 at 01:11
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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