Questions of Mortality. By CpSingleton © 2016
So many questions.
They bounce and rage, slouch an ponder around the brain
Like a drunk in search of keys,
Or a stoner in search of the last slice of pizza that
He just knew he had in his grasp a moment or two ago.
Ecclesiastical and metaphysical revaluations appear and
Wave from the doorway with
Little certainty in their demeanour.
With my face masked in compassion,
To the bed and see such strength.
Such golden humility behind those heavy eyes.
Three months from marathon runner to
Exhausted skeleton, yet
Not an utterance of complaint or fury at
The fallen position she finds herself.
When the darkness sucks the sounds of day and
Hides them in a lead-lined box,
With the light,
Does she, like me, ask the ceiling
Why such plans are set in place?
If we are created in another’s image
Are they also laid prone and diseased, with
Tubes leading to stinking bags?
Are they in an alien room, lost and furious.
All memories of glorious childhoods and
Sweet, exciting teens erased?
Do they endure the looks of sorrow and sadness
That greet them every time a new face comes to visit?
Is every single one of their minutes filled
To the septic brim with torturous pain and
Dignity quashing probes?
I hear Metaphysics cough, but
I know their theories and arguments,
It still doesn’t help lift the pain from
The shoulders of the kind.
It won’t stop me trying.
I shall offer her a joke and a warm hand.
I’m certain she would do the same for me.