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By hutmaster
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20 August 2007 |
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Visiting you, weeks into your illness,
I almost passed your bed
so unlike yourself you had become.
You saw me, but propriety
decreed that you ignore
my appalled gaze.
I saw the old smile creak.
I said
that I was daydreaming in the Cancer Ward.
Chemo-ed and probed enough
you had them move you back
to lie amongst different strangers.
All believed, or wanted to,
that they were gaining
on their corruptions
but they cried at night;
a dread sound of stripped hope,
you called it, precisely.
This functional care is adequate, you said,
it makes the staff feel better.
I avoided you one day, because you talk so much-
or maybe I can't listen.
And I was in a hurry to..to..
You know I cannot remember
what I had to do that sunny day.
Or was it cloudy? I do not remember.
The tumour grows in your throat,
your voice a cracked whisper
in sullied air.
I fidget in the too-brown room
amidst bright, bright blooms
dying slow in ugly vases.
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Hi
Written by maipenrai (784 comments posted) 21st August 2007 | this is so hard and painful to read but you have made a fine job with such a awful differcult subject, you have my admiration for this good piece of work.
Bernie | Yes,
Written by audrie (454 comments posted) 22nd August 2007 | I agree with Bernie, it is a subject most people would shy away from. The awful feeling of inadequacy, the guilt for being free of disease, the wanting to escape and feeling an absolute so and so for even thinking it.
I also commend this poem.
audrie |
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