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 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 doctors orders.
And I count the minutes,
Selfishly longing for relief
Because I want them to
Put me out of my misery.
He feels no pain
And never more
Will he be unable to sleep.
Death is an insomniac's dream.
Poetry by Esti D-G
Read 939 times
Written on 2005-09-30 at 12:57
Tags Grief 
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